Ten Little Wolves
by Saint Sentiment
Summary: AU. Murder mystery. Ten people are trapped in an ominous hotel until dawn by a madman who claims justice will be brought upon them. Will any of them live to see the sun? T for swearing and violence.
1. Going Out To Tea

Disclaimer: I do not own _Death Note_ or its characters. They all belong to Tsugumi Ohba and Takashi Obata. I also do not own Agatha Christie's _And Then There Were None_, from which certain aspects of the plot are thus derived.

T for swearing and violence.

Saint Sentiment Presents

**Ten Little Wolves**

****

Cast of Characters:

Light Yagami: An intelligent high school student from Japan who might need a little more than parental guidance.

Nate River: The physically disabled albino boy native of Slovenia with no interest in social conventions. He prefers peace, quiet, and an assortment of dice.

Matthew Jeevas: A soft spoken young man with nervous twitches and a sore neck. He's got a heavy load to carry—that'dmake anyone nervous..

Lawrence Lawliet: With his hands in his pockets and an impassive stare, he doesn't strike anyone as particularly remarkable—but his deductive abilities come in handy when things take a frightening turn.

Naomi Misora: She is kind, taciturn, and often keeps to herself. For some odd reason though, she looks very pained. She's also considers the subject of children a disturbing prospect..

Brendan Bridgewood: Otherwise known as B. A wonder the manager hadn't assumed that they'd all feel safer in the hotel without a nut case in their group: apparently he's looking for a man that no one else can find.

Halle Lidner: Her snobby demeanor and meager patience is a turn off to men and women alike. She was headed to the airport until her tires suddenly popped, and now she's stuck in a hotel with nine other strangers.

Roger Ruvie: The amiable manager. He was never one to believe in ghosts, but this strange, incongruous group of people have changed his mind as of late.

Merrie Kenwood: A bombshell blond with a familiar face. Lately she's found herself in an impasse with the rest of the guests. As if the predicament weren't dire enough..

Tierry Morello: A suave, handsome, calm individual who sees this whole affair as a strange, childish joke.

Kiyomi Takada: The young Slovakian boy's adoptive mother.

Detective-Inspector Gevanni: The most imaginative man of Scotland Yard. He loves crime fiction and can be something of a Hercule Poirot at times. He was the first to suggest that the weird goings-on at the unassuming hotel were nothing short of astounding.

* * *

**Chapter One: Going Out To Tea**

* * *

The engine spurred and sputtered to a stop in the lonely road. He tried to see in front of him, but there was nothing ahead but darkness and ill weather.

"No...not tonight...come on, my life's already sucking as it is.." He hit his forehead gently on the side of the window, his lip quivering. "Dad.."

The young man sprang out of his car and kicked the door multiple times. He kicked until his foot hurt, then turned his back to the car and slid resignedly to the wet ground. Not even the skin under his clothes were untouched by the onslaught of rain. His dark brown bangs fringed over his eyesight and he rested his head in his palms.

"Where am I going to go now? What am I gonna do? I'm stuck here unless.."

"Dammit! Shit!" The woman screamed, stomping on the pedal while her windshield wipers waved to and fro in the tumult. "This is just great...great...I have a plane to catch and I'm caught in this shit!" She snatched her umbrella and possessions, got out of the car and slammed the door violently behind her.

With a growl of agitation she glimpsed one final time at her deflated, hopeless tires. Must have hit a sharp rock or other...tires don't pop for nothing!

And so she started down the road, her high heels tapping on the pavement. "This is a nightmare.." she muttered angrily, and expanded her umbrella to the anguished sky. "Just great..."

A few minutes into the seemingly never ending road her suitcases began to feel like a sack of rocks, so she dropped them onto the ground and bent down. Damn this whipping cold, this harsh onslaught of rain! The desire to rest was killing her..

"Hey!"

Her eyes widened. Could it be? Someone with a car? Someone who knows the way to the airport? Ah, her luck!

"Hey, you there!" the voice called again. She lifted the umbrella from her view and peered out into the distance. It was a young boy in a high school uniform jogging toward her, unmistakably soaked and aggrieved. He looked lost, too.

Pff. Her luck..

She stood warily and motioned him to come closer. He did so obligingly. "Hi.." he began, swiping wet bangs from his eyes. "Uh...do you, by any chance, have a car? Mine just broke down a little off the road and—"

The woman began to groan. "Aw, _damn_.."

The young man frowned. Just seeing her walking alone with an umbrella over her head was proof enough of her being stranded, but he thought it was best to try anyway.

"You too, huh?" He forced a dubious laugh. "Ah, what are the odds.."

"Got a name, kid?" She held out her hand.

They shook quickly. "Yeah, it's Light. Light Yagami," he declared, in an almost intended imitation of James Bond.

"Japan, huh?" she said, disinterested. She didn't even care to make eye contact.

The question was rhetorical, but Light nodded anyway. There was an informality about her that he began to dislike. American, he assumed.

"My name's Halle." She peered away from him. "There has to be some form of civilization not far down the road.."

"I heard there's a hotel or an inn of some sort. That's civilized enough for you, huh?" He smiled genuinely now. "If you share your umbrella, we can find it together."

Halle smiled too, if only to preserve the feigned cordiality she needed to get to shelter. "Sure thing."

Light ducked under it and they made their way up the road, conversing about meaningless subject matter just to advert their thoughts from their rotten luck.

****

The woman glanced askance at the rear view mirror once more. It became a habit ever since he came in. Like there was something to look out for.

She'd never seen a man so completely composed of oddity. As he sat in the backseat, twiddling his thumbs as he'd been for the past fifteen minutes, she thought about what could've happened to make him this way. The man had his legs folded to his chest like a frightened child and he was only wearing a white long-sleeve t-shirt and aged, faded blue jeans. When she found him out there, he wasn't even wearing shoes. She'd asked him how he happened upon the road in the first place, but he only replied, vaguely, that he was "looking for someone". She wanted to know where he came from, among other things, but he didn't seem ready to spill at the moment.. Too caught in his meanderings..

Why was he so nervous? Is someone dangerous after him? Is _he_ dangerous?

"U-um..lady.." A pallid, slender finger drew up to the rear view mirror. "U-uh, the-there's.."

"Yes?"

"There's another lady and a man that wants to talk to you. They're out in the road. I think they're calling' you.."

She stopped the car immediately and looked behind her. Indeed, there was a woman and a man running up to them, in dire need of help. She grabbed her jacket and exited the car.

"Need help?" she shouted into the rain.

The blond woman got to her first. "We're stuck out here. Both of our cars—useless heaps of metal." Her hands dropped to her thighs and allowed her heart rate to slow.

"Oh."

"By the way, the name's Halle. This is Light—" she muttered breathlessly and pointed to him. Light half smiled; one could now tell that he no longer cared for formalities.

She grasped Halle's hands and shook. "Hello, Light, Halle. I'm Naomi Misora."

He leaned in with happy surprise. "_Misora_? And your accent—your Japanese, too?"

"You're...?" she began, "What part? Me, I'm Kobe."

"No sh—!" Light reproved himself. "I-I mean, I'm from Kanto."

"Hajimemashite!" Naomi shook hands with Light, much to his approval.

"Hajimemashite."

"—Hate to ruin your little reunion, but I was wondering if you could take me to the airport." Halle continued indignantly, "The young man'll settle for an inn or motel, but I've got a flight."

She shuddered in the cold, her beautiful blond tresses stuck to her face unchecked. Light was already quite soaked so it didn't matter either way to him. He stepped back and allowed her free reign over the small space under the umbrella.

"Yeah, uh—oh..." Naomi's eyes widened in realization. "I-I'm sorry, I don't think I'll be able to. There's another guy in the backseat who's stranded out here too. We're both headed to the hotel because—well, I'm too far down the road to go home and I don't have a lot of gas..." Ashamed, she cast her stare downward. "I'm sorry, miss."

Halle's brows furrowed together, but whether in anger or deep thought, Naomi nor Light could decide. "Okay, you know what? I'll just...go in your car, and I'll get a room. This is obviously—" Her voice raised a few octaves, then reclined to a murmur. "..Not my day."

Defeated, the bereaved blond and the high school student headed to the car with a now forlorn gait, believing circumstances couldn't get any worse.

Four strangers in a car, on a stormy night and a ominous road did not, in any way, appeal to Halle. The sentiment only deepened when she considered the odd man situated just inches from her. Light and Naomi were bearable because ever since they got in the car, they've avoided conversing with each other, especially in their native tongue. She felt fervently in the mood for a cigarette, but with one glance at her open purse, she sighed in annoyance, knowing there were none left.

Light's spirits, however, were rising, as he could do with a nice warm bed and a good night's sleep. He'd been depressed, lost, and utterly despondent these past few days, but he reasoned it could've just been the prospect of home. Home reminded him of everything, including his mom and sister. It wasn't that he didn't love them, it was just..

They brought up too much. All they ever talked about was..was..

"Dad.." Light rested his palm on his chin. He turned to look at the weird man perched, not sitting, on Halle's right side. With those wide, almost bulging black eyes and monstrously unkempt black hair, he appeared as a younger, more disheveled Tim Burton.

It was intriguing, though Light resisted the urge to quirk a brow. He didn't want to insult anyone anymore—he'd been fighting with everyone lately. "So uh...what's your name, stranger?"

The man remained unmoved and he received no form of acknowledgment. Light began to feel silly and thought perhaps he might be deaf or hard of hearing, so he returned his attention to the falling rain.

"Hey, weirdo!" Halle seethed, violently nudging his shoulder blade.

The mysterious, reclusive creature came to reality with a start. "Y-yes?"

"He's was talking to you, you know." She said, and folded her arms like a disappointed child.

The man's attention was now fixed on Light, as it should have been a few seconds ago. "What's..?" he trailed off.

"Your name." Light laughed to let the man know he wasn't severely offended.

"B-Brendan Bridgewood." He stuttered, "But it's just B."

Mr. Bridgewood looked very perturbed, to say the least. Light was at a loss as to how he could come off as so threatening.

"B?" Light inquired, "You mean people only call you by one letter? Weird.." He whispered, and turned his attention to the road ahead of him. Halle sighed in annoyance, though no one paid any mind to it.

The queer Mr. Bridgewood nodded and averted his stare to the window.

"Looking for someone?" Light asked, facing him again.

"..Yes."

"Well, maybe we can help you get in contact with them—tell 'em where you are when we get to the hotel, I mean."

With an apprehensive countenance, B returned, "No need. He'll find his way here. He's been.." he trailed off and muttered something inaudible to himself. "Nothing, nothing..."

"Hey, you're not...running from anyone, are you?"

B looked at him again with eyes of a somber angel and said softly, "I don't have to. People run from _me."_

Halle's composure finally failed her and she directed a sour glare to Naomi. "You're a little kinder than you should be, _definitely_ more trusting. I would use more discretion in choosing who I drive around. This guy obviously needs some serious medical attention!"

Light gasped and stared at her with incredulity.

Naomi muttered scornfully, "I'm beginning to regret you, so I see your point. I'll be more careful next time."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Halle violently retaliated. "He could be running from the cops for all you know!"

All things considered, Light began to agree. "..Or a psych ward.." He added under his breath, his face toward the window to escape suspicion.

"So could you, but I let you in anyway! At least the man's being quiet!" Naomi shouted with a sudden force alien to her.

Halle's demurring words died on her tongue.

The conflicting selves of Naomi's being threw around the notion of pressing into the wound or giving out. Her inherent, detestable modesty pervaded and she relapsed into her initial silence. She was, after all, driving this woman, and there wasn't much sense in continuing the argument. She was too feeble to handle a confrontation.

As time passed and the yellow line of the road raced to oblivion, the awkwardness of the whole predicament abated. Light forgot and tangled himself in his own web of musings. Naomi effaced it from her mind, with many things to consider like Light. Halle noticed how severely her attitude had taken a turn. The cruel little demon returned though, and what she could once call remorse was no longer there.

Halle at once knew that there was something in Naomi that could be taken advantage of; whether that weakness had always been there or was drawn out by some unfortunate happening, she didn't know. But she knew the weak ones when she saw them.

Having identified Naomi's flaw, she recruited her mental artillery against Mr. Bridgewood, whose case was rather feasible. All things strange under the sun personified itself in him.

Halle once more scrutinized the damp, white, long-sleeve shirt that clung to B's emaciated frame, the worn blue jeans frayed at the heels of his feet, then his absently dark, reddish-grey eyes that gave little knowledge of reality, and finally—the unobtrusive pink scars under his wrists.

An inviting gape tugged at her lips. _Had he tried to kill himself?_

There was assuredly something that whispered abuse about him, probably mommy-daddy issues in childhood or perhaps a victim of domestic violence. But Halle could hardly entertain the thought of an abusive girlfriend...a relative was more likely...

Maybe she should've been a little nicer to him—"weirdo" was exceptionally mean...

Ah, to hell with it. Naomi seriously should not have let this man in her car.

Halle turned to Naomi once more. "So how long is this gonna take?" inquired the blond, as if the argument had never eased its way into existence. "I'm soaking wet...I don't expect you to have any towels either.."

Naomi shrugged. "I don't know. I've never been to this hotel or inn before. B..." It felt incongruous to even utter that letter in the sanctity of her vehicle. "...Suggested it. He said I couldn't miss it."

"You've been there before?" Halle sneered to B.

"He's very nice...like this lady.." B almost smiled at the morose brunette, but the desire to was quick at leaving. She probably didn't like him. No one did, really, so he could understand..

Then he realized that no one aside from himself understood what he said. A faint pink arose in his cheeks. He shouldn't say anything more, he decided. He only served to confuse and freak people out, and if he said something stupid, the sad, pretty lady would grow to hate him..

The student and the other woman were already on weird terms with him. No, he should be fair. The blond woman despised him. He wasn't sure what to think of the kid. He said something about his Dad, didn't he? Is he some sort of run away?

"B?" Naomi looked at the rear view mirror for the thousandth time.

"'M?"

"What did you mean by—hey, look! I see it!"

Everyone lurched forward in unprecedented interest to whatever it was that Naomi had addressed.

It was the hotel B had mentioned. Embellished over the front of the establishment bore the words _'Whammy's Hotel'_.

The size came as a surprise to everyone. There were doubtlessly more rooms contained inside it than any possible number of tenants who would happen by this place at any one time.

Halle's lips broke into a great grin of self-assurance. This is nothing like what she'd been hoping for—far beyond that. It was so convenient it was frightening. By some turn of great fortune she'd stumbled upon this. Maybe this night wouldn't go as bad as she initially thought.

Halle was out of the car before Naomi had a chance to find the parking lot. She insisted that she be released immediately and abruptly thanked Naomi for the ride. She didn't even pause to apologize for her impertinence—if indeed she felt any sense of human decency behind all her pompous reasoning. With a grunt Light removed his legs from her path and opened the door for her. It was an unspoken agreement that she wouldn't exit on B's side of the car.

B, accustomed to far worse insolence than what Halle could dish out, stared at her blankly and uttered an emotionless goodbye. Halle didn't even bother to acknowledge it and strutted out of the car with an outspread umbrella and all her possessions in tow.

Light immediately closed the door as Naomi spun around in a semi-circle, a grunt confirming she'd found the parking lot. When the car was situated, Light said goodbye and headed out.

"Sayonara," he said.

"Sayonara," she returned, and threw her hood over her head and snatched her purse.

Naomi noticed as she closed the door behind her that B had not bothered to dismiss himself. Instead he stared intently out the window, utterly perplexed and amazed at something. Naomi glimpsed in front of her and saw nothing of interest, save for a few other cars parked juxtapose to her own.

What is he staring at?

She opened the other car door and waved her hand in front of his fixated stare. Still he wouldn't be moved. The smallest wisp of fear shot up her spine as his mental soundness came into question. Apprehensively she asked, "Mr. Bridgewood? Is something wrong?"

Silly question. Of course something was wrong. She just wished that B would tell her what it was. But her voice never reached him, and still he addressed someone else. Someone, Naomi knew, wasn't there: "It's you. I saw you there. It was you.."

Just as abruptly as Halle departed, B did also, except that he didn't follow the same path as Halle and Light. Instead, he disappeared around the corner. When Naomi entered the hotel to search for him, Roger, the manager, said he hadn't seen him.

"I'm so sorry to hear that you've lost track of him. Perhaps he's upset about something that he feels he can't disclose to anyone else. He could be in the back smoking a cigarette, I suppose," Roger offered, like he knew the ways of the young in and out. He was an elderly man leaning onto the front desk with his hands folded in front of his mouth, like this was some kind of discreet discussion of utmost importance. Sixty-ish, Naomi would say.

One could tell with only one look that B didn't smoke. She thought of what Roger might say if she'd informed him thoroughly of her companion's odd behavior.

With a quick glance she noticed a 10-piece set of wolf figurines behind him in a cupboard, all made of china, positioned to chase a small lamb.

She removed her hood. "Well, he has messy black hair and he's wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans so...if you see him please let me know. Oh, and he's not wearing shoes, either."

Roger quirked a brow. "I assume his shoes must have been soaked and dirtied beyond all repair in the storm."

"Yeah probably.." she murmured carelessly, walking away. She knew he'd waltzed out onto the road without them. He was running from someone. That she knew for sure. And he was looking for someone, too..

"Miss!"

Naomi turned to face Roger. He had a black key with a white number painted on it.

"Your room, Ma'am." He laughed.

"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry," she tapped her head in light admonishment, "Man, I've been so absent-minded lately." She took the key and descended up the stairs to her room.

Absent-minded, indeed, Roger thought with another chuckle. She didn't even bother to ask how much the room was or tell him how long she intended to stay.

Meanwhile, Light had just entered the hotel to inform Roger of a simple inconvenience.

"Hello there, sir. You're the manager right? The phone isn't working. But anyway, I'd like a room."

Said Roger, "Sorry to hear that, son. Must be the weather." He snatched another key off of the wall and handed it to him. "Hope you enjoy your stay nonetheless. I'm sure the phones will be up and running smoothly tomorrow. But is it an emergency?"

"Nah.." Light trailed off with an apathetic shake of his head. "I was kind of hoping the lines weren't working—then I'd have an excuse.."

Roger murmured something about the room being fifty dollars, of which he was vaguely thankful that he'd taken with him, and fished in his jeans pocket for it. He obtained a crinkled heap of some seventy dollars and passively dropped it onto Roger's hand.

"Want your change?"

Roger might as well not have asked—Light was in space. The old man faintly grumbled about people being so "aloof" and walked to the register.

At that moment Light didn't feel like going up to his room. If he was alone his thoughts would drive him crazy. Luckily the lounge was rather noisy with guests, thus inhibiting peaceful rumination. He searched around for a bench and found one by a pot with a plant long since dead. On that bench lay a young teenager, perhaps maybe a few years younger than him and definitely just as soaked, shivering. Apparently he was trying to sleep.

He mustn't have any money. There was also a suggestive looking bucket situated near him on the floor. Roger commented behind him, "Sick. Flu, stomach virus, pneumonia...don't know."

Light turned just in time to see Roger shrug. "Poor thing."

"Between you and me...he has no I.D or form of identification on him and I'm starting to think he's homeless...but when he came in here he was just so sad and needy I took him in."

So...another one like B who managed to find someone with Naomi's kindness.

"Hm." Light left the conversation and strode up the young stranger.

"What's your name?" he asked the shivering boy.

The teen peered groggily up at him through orange-tinted goggles.

The boy's hair was a chestnut color, similar to his, and fell flat around his head in an uneven, jagged heap. He had on a black and white striped shirt and tight skinny jeans that fit perfectly into padded winter boots. "...'S Matt," he grumbled, and dropped his head back on the wood with a dull thump.

Such strange characters—an obviously depressed Japanese woman, a rude blond, a slightly unhinged man with no shoes, and now a bum pilot trying to sleep on a bench. What diversity. Quite an influx of strange guests were coming in now, Light had noticed. B had finally decided to make his existence known and scurried up the stairs with muddy feet. Then came the newcomers: a beautiful woman with boyishly short black hair, chinky looking, and an albino boy in a wheel chair, wearing pajamas with a bloody nose.

Light struggled to withhold laughter.

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have called you down—he was so angry—" was all that Light could pick up from the woman, who was most likely the boy's mother. Though, Light had trouble accepting that she married an albino and gave birth to _that_ kid.

He studied the impossibly pallid boy very carefully, the way he gently dabbed at his nose, and the way he didn't seem affected by what his mother was saying or his profuse bleeding. The woman rubbed his shoulders comfortingly, or at least intending to comfort, as he accepted a key from the manager without throwing a glance Roger's way. The woman opened her wallet, eyes glued to her child, and Roger quickly accepted with a weak half smile.

Light could faintly make out Roger saying that he gave them a ground-floor key for their convenience and to have a nice day. The woman simply nodded and wheeled her son (who looked about a year or two younger than Light, who was 16) out of the lobby and into the hallway paved with doors on the left side.

Roger stared curiously after them, tapping his fingers on the desk. Light could only do the same.

****

Naomi discarded her leather jacket on the bed and briefly studied her room. A bed was situated in the middle, with white sheets and pillows. There were two small bureaus on each side. On the right side of the bed, next to the window, there was a single sofa chair. In concise terms, it was rather plainly adorned, save for a mantelpiece and a fake fireplace below it. Upon the mantelpiece sat a plaque. A poem. She read interestedly:

_Ten little wolves went out to dine,_

_One choked on a bone and then there were nine._

_Nine little wolves stayed up late,_

_One overslept himself and then there were eight._

_Eight little wolves made a mockery of Heaven,_

_One was judged and then there were seven._

_Seven little wolves played dirty little tricks,_

_One was beat and then there were six._

_Six little wolves went awry,_

_One got in too deep and then there were five._

_Five little wolves entreated on a man's door,_

_One was shot down and then there were four._

_Four little wolves worked as a team,_

_One lost himself and then there were three._

_Three little wolves out on the loose,_

_One tipped his balance and then there were two._

_Two little wolves on the run,_

_One was caught and then there was one._

_One little wolf spent and done,_

_He consigned to the hangman and then there were none._

What a horrible poem! She grasped the plaque and turned it around. Then she remembered: those wolves. In the cupboard. And the lamb. Funny. The poem never mentioned a lamb..

Naomi jumped as a knock resounded through her door. She quickly composed herself and went to answer.

B's rain-laden form awaited her, soaked and shivering. It reminded her of the way Halle shivered, and she actually felt sorry for her then.

"Come on in. I was wondering where you were at. Where'd you go?"

"I had to slip out to the back for a moment. I thought I—well, I really didn't think, I _know_ I...never mind. I'm sorry I ran out on you. I came here to say thank you." He began to twiddle his thumbs again in nervous agitation.

Naomi decided not to probe. "Oh. Well, did you get a room?"

He shook his head. "No money. It doesn't matter."

"Then...where will you sleep?"

"I'll...sleep outside. It's really no problem. There's a bench out there." B saw the stupidity exposed in that statement and tried to change her perspective. "I-I mean, I'm used to—to—camping. I camp a lot, so I.." he fell into a timid mumble. "I camp.."

"You mean out in the woods? With other people?"

"..Yeah."

He's a terrible liar.

She snatched a towel from the bathroom and ran it through B's dripping mane. "You don't have to lie to me. I'll let you stay here tonight. I don't sleep much anyway."

An unmistakable blush attacked Mr. Bridgewood's cheeks. "U-uh—you don't have to do that!" He grabbed the towel and began to violently shake his hair dry with it. "It's really no problem!"

"It's fine." Naomi said softly, "Really."

He stopped in his frantic attempt to side-track himself from blushing at her, knowing he miserably failed. He covered the lower half of his face with the towel. "I'm sorry. I know I'm weird, and people don't like me much—"

"The person you're looking for—he's not here, is he?" Naomi intercepted.

"No. I mean, yes." He looked down. "He's here, but he just...vanishes, is all."

She stopped there. "Mm. Okay, why don't you just stay here? I'm gonna go downstairs and ask the manager a few questions about the hotel."

B nodded and sat on the floor, pulling his legs up to his chest. He looked as if he were going to break out in a fitful passion of tears. Naomi's heart lurched out of sympathy.

_God, this poor soul.._

****

Roger looked up from the newspaper he was reading and greeted Naomi with a warm smile.

She was grave. "Mr. Ruvie. I think the young man in my hotel room is confused."

"The one who came in here all wet and soggy and ruined my carpet?" He laughed.

"Yeah. Black hair, white shirt, blue jeans." She didn't see the humor. Halle was right; this man needed help.

"Confused about what, may I ask?"

"I believe he could be hallucinating. He's looking for someone. When he came out of my car he chased after something that wasn't there, and now he's saying that person just up and 'vanished'. He needs help."

"Lady, you have no idea—he's not the only one. There was a woman who came in here with 'er boy—he had a bloody nose and some bruises. Like he'd gotten in a real spot of trouble with his father. Alcoholic, I bet. And look at that young man there," Roger pointed to the boy on the bench.

Naomi took a double-take at both the boy and Light, who was sitting next to him. "Him? Is he sleeping on that bench?"

So B wasn't the only one who thought that was a good idea.

"Yeah, and I've got no idea what's wrong with him. He twitches and scratches his neck a lot. He's pale and skinny like he does drugs or something. I don't think he has a home. I'd call the police to swing by and pick him up, but.."

Naomi pursed her lips together and nodded. Calling the cops on the boy would be impudent of him.

"Everyone's having a bad day, huh?" she commented. The wolves met her line of sight again. "Hey, what's the story on those things?"

Roger glimpsed back. "Oh, those? Yeah, those are the wolves of that poem. There should be one in every room about them."

She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

He laughed. "I know, it's not a pretty poem, is it? I'm thinking of taking it down because it seems to offend some of the guests—yet others are fascinated by it. It's a nursery rhyme my brother used to love, God rest his soul."

Before Naomi could inquire, a man strode up to her with a sudden "Hello" and turned to the manager to pass the greeting.

"Why, hello, Lawrence," Roger smiled. "How's the room?"

"Splendid, thank you."

He appeared very refined. He stood upright, dressed casually, and wore clean, white sneakers that would put B to shame. The odd thing about him, Naomi realized, was that he had wide black eyes and messy black hair like B. If she had not just happened by Mr. Bridgewood in the road she would've immediately assumed they were siblings.

He also suffered from a lack of sleep: conspicuous black lined the underside of his eyes.

"As you've heard, my name is Lawrence Lawliet." He announced, and offered her the long, spidery fingers of his left hand.

"Naomi Misora," she returned, and shook.

"I am a regular tenant here. Mr. Ruvie is a very nice man, and I hope you enjoy your stay here."

Taken aback by his kindness, she said nothing.

Naomi felt a slight tug as he walked away and scratched her hair. It was weird for him to just walk up to Roger and her and say hi. He must be quite the social butterfly, then—approaching strangers just for a fleeting introduction.

"Lawrence is a regular, as he's said. He likes to escape from the hustle and bustle of Southampton and stay here for a few days."

"That's nice."

Naomi had completely forgotten why she had addressed Roger in the first place, and so did Roger, apparently. She made for her bedroom and was immediately reminded. B was still sitting on the floor when she came in, but now he wore a smile. His eyes were faintly red-rimmed and he was murmuring absently to himself. He had probably cried in her absence.

"_..Now I lay me down to sleep...I pray the lord my soul to keep.."_

"Oh, hi!" She said, surprised. She really needed to stop being so aloof about things. She'd actually forgotten he was here! "Are you alright?"

He stopped mid-song and blurted, "Oh, yes, of cour—!"

"_Order in the court! Silence everyone!" _blared an unprecedented voice. It was heard above the heads of every person in every room, but no source of the noise could be identified.

"_You are charged with the following indictments:_

_Light Yagami; obstruction of justice. Your deliberate heartlessness and unwillingness to act allowed the killers of one Misa Amane to unjustly obtain their freedom._

_Naomi Misora; voluntary manslaughter via infanticide. Upon the devastation of your marriage you saw it fit to murder your child in cold blood._

_Halle Bullock; murder by proxy, perjury. Convinced the court with staged evidence that your lover, Lind L. Tailor, murdered your husband Anthony Rester to obtain insurance money._

_Nate River; murder in the first degree, perjury. In a lethal bout of rage you caused the death of your step brother, Mihael Keehl._

_Tierry Morello; 6 counts of murder in the first degree, 2 counts of grand theft, 13 counts of embezzlement, 7 counts of racketeering, and 18 counts of robbery, burglary, espionage and extortion. Your latest crime pertains to the death of one Soichiro Yagami, in which you impersonated a physician in order to poison him._

_Merrie Kenwood; 17 counts of grand theft, 8 counts of espionage, embezzlement, robbery, burglary, extortion, solicitation, and murder in the first degree. Your guilt also correlates with several of the crimes upon which your apprentice Tierry Morello has been accused._

_Lawrence Lawliet; 3 counts of malfeasance in office, compounding. Your conduct during a judicial proceeding caused the death of one Hirokazu Ukita, also in which three jury members were severely injured._

_Brendan Bridgewood; 2 counts of second degree felony murder. In an alleged state of psychosis you brutally killed Lucille Queen and her daughter, Quarter Queen, which led to the suicide of her father, Believe Bridesmaid._

_Matthew Jeevas; 12 counts of 3rd degree manslaughter, illegal drug abuse. Unwittingly you crossed a busy street while under the influence of narcotics, commencing a catastrophic domino effect that resulted in the deaths of 9 drivers and 3 pedestrians._

_Roger Ruvie; negligent homicide. You turned a cold shoulder to your brother, Quillish Whammy, until his death from a debilitating illness in order to collect inheritance._

_Prisoners at the bar, have you anything to say in your defense?"_

In the course of a minute they all congregated into the main lobby. Naomi jogged downstairs with B in tow. A blond woman smoking a cigarette pushed open the door and peered up at the ceiling, and her companion followed suit. The woman and her disabled son wheeled in with almost no time to spare. Roger and Light glimpsed around frantically while Lawrence strode in with a curious demeanor. Matt sat up abruptly and began copying them.

"Who said that?" The woman at the wheelchair cried. "Where did that voice come from? And how did—!"

Her son put a finger to his mouth with a gentle 'hush'. His mother acquiesced. He then twirled it in his colorless hair. The initial reaction wasn't an emotional disturbance, but a desire to investigate.

Halle was the last to appear. She sauntered out of her room, a towel wrapped around her head and body, fearless and infuriated. Lawrence could be no more passive as he sat next to the frightened Matt, drew up his legs, and placed his hands upon his knees. "Needless to say, this is pretty odd," he muttered.

Light, however, was petrified beyond all belief, with Naomi, Roger, B, Matt, and the albino's mother sharing similar sentiments.

If only for a moment, the deadening quiet hung in the air like a noose.

"Who said that?" the woman repeated incredulously. Tears began to materialize in the rims of her eyes. "There's no way! No way! How would _anybody_ accuse my son—!"

"You mean your _step_ son," barked Halle.

That was the only catalyst the tenants needed to explode into an uproar of vicious screaming. Restless, stomping feet and violent movements of the hands were abound.

"..You killed 12 people! You on the bench there..!"

"..No I didn't! That was a fucking accident..!"

"..There was someone that was accused of murdering my father! Soichiro Yagami! Who the hell is Tierry Morello? I'm gonna murder his ass..!"

"..What the hell? You killed a mother and her daughter? What the hell is wrong with you..?"

"..B-but I—"

"..Is it true someone in here killed their _baby_? Whoever it is.."

"..You sick psychopath..!"

"..Call the cops..!"

"Everyone calm down!" Lawrence shouted with vehemence. The noise eventually died away into latent hostility. All eyes were on their neighbor. He took a long look at every one of them, studying their countenance, processing information. "We can discuss this calmly. It would be better for all of us, considering everyone in this room wants answers."

"Let's all introduce ourselves then, so none of us are strangers any more." Halle crossed her arms. "That way we know who all the sick fucks mentioned on the intercom are."

"Intercom?" Matt gasped. "What intercom?"

Halle threw a thumb behind her, which in turn indicated something behind Roger. Roger slowly turned and, stepping out of the way, they all saw one built into the wall. It was situated right next to the cupboard. Too easy to miss.

"I'd forgotten..." Roger darted his eyes around, wide and vacant. "I...only use that...for emergencies, though..."

"How do we know it wasn't you that said all that shit about us?" Matt cried. His head twitched and his frail heart began to throb.

Light countered, "We're getting off the matters of real importance! We should be talking about what the voice accused us of! Besides, that voice was pre-recorded, and I was in the room at the time. It wasn't Roger. It didn't even sound remotely like him."

Said Halle, "That doesn't prove his innocence. He could've—"

"It doesn't prove any of ours, either," said Light immediately to keep universal attention on him. He needed a moment to breathe, though, and closed his eyes. A few seconds later he regained his composure. "Like she said, let's introduce ourselves. I'm Light Yagami." He then intimated to Halle.

"Halle...Bullock."

"Lawrence Lawliet."

"Matthew." He averted his eyes from the crowd.

Naomi squeezed B's hand for support. "I'm Naomi Misora, a-and this is—Mr. Bridgewood." She nodded at him. B returned it solemnly to confirm.

"I'm Kiyomi Takada and this is my _son_, Nate River." It was the Asian-looking woman who spoke. A cold glare was then directed toward Halle, who retaliated with a flip of the bird.

"I've introduced myself to you all already," said Roger.

"Merrie Kenwood," the blond woman at the door offered. The man placed his hands on her shoulder, and met Light's furious eyes and quavering lips precisely. "And I'm Tierry Morello."

Lawrence said, "That's good."

"Wha'd ya do?" Halle asked indignantly.

"I was just about to get to that. And I would also appreciate it if no one interrupted me while I explain myself. Is that understood?" He proclaimed this as one who is used to great authority.

"Wait a minute." Matt took off his goggles. "Sorry, but I have to know—are you a cop or something?"

"No. I'm a lawyer." He paused and to allow the last of any interposing questions. There were none left, and the crowd was all ears. Lawrence nodded in approval. "Okay. Now, the intercom mentioned a guy—a serial rapist named Hirokazu Ukita." He began to scratch his knees. "I was defending a victim of his at the time. The problem was that someone in the jury was a former romantic companion of the plaintiff. When I took out photos of her battered body—with her permission, might I add—the man jumped from the jury box and began to viciously beat Ukita. He was apprehended, but he managed to stomp on Ukita's face with brutal force, thereby killing him. Several of Ukita's relatives lunged themselves at his murderer, and the whole court room burst into violence. Like what just happened right now."

He stopped momentarily to survey their reactions. The crowd, as a whole, had sunk into a very morose mood. But regardless, they knew he was telling the truth.

He continued, "Three jury members had to be ushered into medical care after the chaos, and I admit I somewhat started the whole grave affair, but other than that I am guilty of nothing else. I didn't directly cause his death—after all, I didn't stomp on the guy's face with _my_ foot."

"That isn't as serious as some of the other ones I heard," replied Takada. "From what you said, you didn't kill anyone. There was this one guy, and some woman in league with him—" She began laying down all the crimes by smacking her hand, "They had embezzlement, robbery, murder, and all this other shit."

"Yeah, that was that guy and her." Matt pointed to the taciturn pair. "They're husband and wife. They told me.."

"But they can't be husband and wife. They have different last names," Naomi said.

"Yeah? So they lied!" Light cried in bitter enmity. "How about telling me what you did to my dad, you sack of shit!"

Tierry tried to speak, but was droned out by another outburst of pandemonium.

Roger's hands flung up as he addressed the crowd. "Please! No fighting! The man who accused us of those crimes is obviously insane! You can't just put your fists up against everyone else just like that! I mean—you don't even know if any of those allegations are true!"

"But how did he know all our names?" Light turned to him. "And it's true, what he said! About my dad, at least. My dad _is_ dead. He died in the hospital. And he _was_ poisoned. And now it's tellin' me the one who did it is that man over there!"

"Nonsense. I've never met your father in my life." Tierry replied coolly. "I _know_ I've never met a man called Yagami. I've never murdered anyone, threatened anyone if they didn't give me money, or any of that. I will, however, admit to embezzlement, which I did time for. Trust me, it's not as bad as it sounds. This guy's pulling all of our legs. He wants us to kill each other. This is nothin' but a bad joke."

A few nods here and there. Whispers and murmurings to one another. Light lapsed into helpless silence. He knew he had nothing to go by, no proof or solid evidence. Making a scene would solve nothing.

Naomi saw that Roger was extremely upset at the mentioning of his brother. She approached him with a gentle pat on the shoulder. "It's alright. It's okay. Calm down. This guy—whoever it is—he's crazy."

"Roger, your brother died? I didn't know that." B asked.

Quiet. All eyes on Roger. Under the pressure he burst into tears. "Yes, he did. I-I don't...I mean...my brother, I loved him. Of course I loved him. H-He was really sick and...t-they say I took the pills from him on purpose but I didn't. I _didn't_. He was really sick! T-This one morning I went upstairs to give him his medication but he...he was already dead..." He wrapped his arms about him and trembled violently. "I _swear_ he was already dead...he'd died in his sleep...peacefully, I tell you!"

Their eyes shifted to Naomi. They were going to go down the line, playing the tell-all game. Her eyes evaded the crowd as if she were propelled into distant memory. She began: "The person on the intercom. He said what happened to my baby—"

"So you _did_ kill him?" Matt asked. Takada quickly shushed him.

"I was bathing him in the sink." She twiddled nervously with her fingers. The same absent look pervaded throughout her face. "I was really stressed at the time and...no, I was depressed. I was taking pills, therapy..." A shaky exhale was released.

"Why?" asked Takada.

"They said I was suffering from postpartum depression and it was exacerbated by my husband's infidelity...but it wasn't true. I was.." Her voice broke and she slowly fell to her knees. A river of black fell upon her expression and darkened it. "I was supposed to be _watching_ him...but I was so caught up in everything, and I wasn't paying attention—"

"Huh. Your baby drowned then." Halle placed a careless hand on her hip. "And the courts didn't believe you. Well.."

"You heartless bitch!" Takada said in disbelief. "She's here telling us how her baby died and you say something like this?"

"I am _this_ close—!"

"Anybody wanna hear the truth?" Tierry said with a smile. He entranced everyone with his suave, laid back Gatsby voice, and tranquil blue eyes. Not a damn thing disturbed him at all about this situation. In all its seriousness, it was comical.

He'd received everyone's undivided attention without effort, especially Light's. The fight that was about to ensue between Halle and Takada was immediately forgotten.

"Alright." He ran his fingers through his hair to keep himself from laughing outright. "From what the intercom's sayin', everybody's got a lot on their plate," his smile only widened, "And _I_ say—this is a fucking joke. Either this is some kind of sick, warped police version of _Boiling Points_, or this is somethin' out of a cheesy ass horror movie."

"I was accused of the most deplorable things—first degree murder—to _think_." Merrie Kenwood sipped her cigarette. A serpentine dragon disappeared into the air. "I'd be on the electric chair by now if any of that shit were true."

"So some of what the voice said wasn't true?" Matt furrowed his brows together. "But the story about the guy's dad and Roger's brother and the lady's baby.."

"Oh, don't believe everything you hear, kid! People are _liars_. All they do is lie, lie, lie.." Halle shook her head.

"Why don't you tell us your story then, Miss Lidner, and I'll reciprocate. We must keep the game going," said Nate with a finger fervently at work on one white curl. All were in awe again. This was the first time the kid spoke since the turbulence started.

She crossed her arms. "Fine. I'm a widow. And yeah, I was having an affair. He was never home. All he ever did was work, work, work—a fucking workaholic! Then when he came home, all he did was sleep! So eventually I met someone else. Bad thing was, looks can be deceiving. He was a _lunatic_. He was telling me all these things about how he wanted to marry me and shit, and I told him no, I wasn't going to. So he gets really mad, and then one night, he bursts into my home and kills my husband. He's arrested, put on trial, found guilty, and executed. The end."

Miss Kenwood's eyes narrowed.

"You don't seem terribly affected by this," observed Lawrence. "Why is this?"

"It was two years ago. Life moves on," Halle retorted, "My marriage was in the toilet anyway, and he never paid any attention to me. And the guy I was with was verbally abusive and persistent, and I'm done with it. It's behind me."

Naomi and Light were beginning to see how Halle was shaped into the woman she is today. It made perfect sense to them. Secretly, B was thinking the same.

"Hm. Right. Now to correct the matter concerning _my_ false allegation." Nate's grey eyes met the whole crowd. "While it is true that I had a step brother by the name of Mihael Keehl, I had taken no intentional role in his death. It was purely an accident. We had the typical sibling rivalry common of any household. At the time of his demise, we were arguing in the hallway about trivial things. He began hitting me, so I called out to our father."

He rested his hand on his chin as if relaying this story was so meaningless it was beyond all conjecture. "My brother's disposition was often violent, and he always responded with hostility to any form of authority. When I made another attempt to get our father's attention, he tried to fling me over the steps. If I was going to fall down the stairs, I at least wanted to drag him down with me, so I held on. At the conclusion of the altercation, I heard a faint crack. When we had tumbled down the last step I immediately noticed he was not breathing. He had broken his neck along the way."

A few gasps. Others shook their heads.

"So that's why you're in a wheelchair?" inquired Matt.

Takada nodded to her son. After a slight pause, Nate said, "Yes."

He turned to Matt, and their accusatory faces followed. He fidgeted under their combined stare—alternating between shifting in his seat and biting his lip. Finally he spoke: "Yes."

"Yes, what?" asked Nate.

"It's true. What the intercom said about me. I did...cause the deaths of those people."

"'While under the influence of narcotics'.." Nate reiterated. "That accusation is founded, then. I assume the proper authorities are pursuing you as of this moment."

Everyone exchanged frightened glances, gasps, and began murmuring to one another.

"A murderer.." someone said under their breath.

"That doesn't not necessarily make him a murderer," Nate added, surveying the intercom. "The intercom said 'twelve counts of _3rd degree manslaughter_'. If you know anything of legal terminology, you should know that '3rd degree' means it's not premeditated, and 'manslaughter' is _unintentional_ killing."

"That doesn't change the fact that twelve people are dead because of him." Light responded, to which Matt buried his face in his hands. "How did you manage to get away from the cops after doing something this bad?"

"I..."

"How did you manage to elude the proper authorities with what you know?" Nate countered.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Light crossed his arms defiantly.

"Pertaining to the Amane girl, of course."

"Wh—"

Nate raised a brow. "As I said, we must keep the game going. Tell us about little miss Misa Amane, and why her killers were allowed to escape justice."

"How do you remember all this?" Light groaned. "Okay, like Tierry said, it's not as—whatever..." And he sighed. "Misa Amane was a girl I knew from a party I went to with a friend of mine. I went out with her for a few weeks, but later I found out she was cheating, so I broke it off. After that we completely ignored each other. And about a week after _that_ she was found dead in a dumpster, raped and everything. They suspected the boyfriend she'd been cheating on me with, who was supposedly with her before we hooked up. Apparently he was a really jealous guy and even hit her once or twice. He's on the run now, I suppose, and the cops are convinced I'm withholding information because I had a grudge against her. So is her family. They've been bringing me back to court ever since. And now that my dad's dead, it's just one thing after another.."

"But wait. The intercom said there was more than one guy that killed her." Tierry said.

He shrugged his shoulders and acridly retaliated, "Well then I guess he brought a friend, then."

"Hm." Nate searched around the room. "Let's see who hasn't gone yet—oh, Mr. Bridgewood. Care to tell us your story?"

B gulped.

"W-well—"

Naomi butted in, "Hey, I don't think this is a good time—"

Halle approached B. "I _knew_ it. I _knew_ there was something wrong with you. And the intercom confirmed it. You're mental, just like I thought you were. You don't need to explain nothin'. One look at you and we all know you did it." She pointed to his feet. "You ain't even wearing shoes, for—"

"_Don't_." Takada said sharply.

Everyone dragged their attention to her. She muttered, "I don't like it...when people say His name in vain like that..."

"He probably got off on an insanity plea," Nate chewed on his thumb. "But then they'd ship him to a psychiatric hospital for treatment. He must've..."

"Escaped!" Light said with astonishment. The agitated whisperings continued unwarranted.

"Fucking joke, man.." Tierry muttered. He popped back into his room for a minute or two as Merrie leaned on the door and sought solace in her cigarette, then returned with his strong hand on her shoulder and a bottle of scotch in the other. "Don't worry, babe. You see? Someone's calling the cops."

Takada murmured, "My cell phone isn't in my purse." She tapped Nate's shoulder, who was quite irritated to be brought back from the world of dire rumination.

"What is it, mother?"

"Honey, I can't find my cell phone," she whispered. "I'm thinking I left it—no, I couldn't have." Takada pressed a hand on her hip. "I came with it, too. I _know_ I did. You know what? These people are psychos."

"I do not agree. They are not psychotic so much as devious." Nate demurred.

"We're going."

"I am _not _going back to that insufferable house. You may leave me here if you wish."

"Are you sure? Do you really—? Okay, you know what, I'm gonna go to my car, and then I'm gonna drive up to a police station to get this sorted out. I can't take you with me, anyway, can I? Someone would notice.."

"Why not ask someone for their cell phone? Or for someone to call the police for you?" Nate suggested.

"Great idea, Sherlock. No, are you crazy? Their behavior is bordering on mass hysteria. They could be killers, too. I need them here so they can all be arrested when the police get here."

Nate reconsidered. "Yes, I'd say that is a fair assessment. Please go forth and contact the proper authorities discreetly. I will stay here."

"And do what? I can tell you don't want me to wheel you back to our room."

"And you are correct. I prefer to observe the situation."

Takada smiled and placed him next to the elevator. "Just in case someone goes ballistic. Quick exit." She ruffled his hair. "My little detective."

Nate rolled his eyes. "Please—"

"Don't have a heart attack," Takada interposed, and left.

"Oh my god!" Merrie screamed. A large thump resounded and the sound of breaking glass followed.

Tierry was seizing violently and holding his throat. His eyes rolled back, his skin immediately discolored, and his veins protruded. "No! Aiber! Aiber! What's happening? What's happening?"

Lawrence stood. "Everyone stay calm!"

"He's having a heart attack!" Halle screamed, "Someone help him! Some—"

But it was too late. Lifeless, Tierry slumped into rigidity in Merrie's arms, his wide, frightened eyes still alive with terror.

"Oh.." Merrie cried with the little breath she had left in her lungs. "He...! He...!"

"My God." Naomi said, "He's dead."

"B-but how?" Light said, "T-that makes no sense! Unless he choked or something! He had to have choked!"

Merrie sniffed Tierry's mouth and slowly backed away. "Almonds...?"

"Almonds?" Light echoed.

"Bitter almonds, I assume. Potassium cyanide." Nate confirmed. "That's the only possible explanation."

"You would know!"

"Mr. Morello's death isn't the least of our woes." Nate turned to Naomi. "Your cell phone is missing. And so is everyone else's."

Everyone checked their pockets. To their mutual horror and astonishment, it was true. Bags were searched, purses were inspected, and every shelf, nook and cranny was sifted through. Nothing turned up. Their phones had effaced themselves from existence.

"Dammit! And all the lines are jacked up because of the storm!" Light announced angrily. "We're screwed _big time_!"

"I'm out of here!" Naomi shrieked, and dragged B outside. "Come on, Light!"

Light and the majority of the guests accompanied her, though Halle and Roger stayed behind to help Merrie lift the body to the bed, and Nate watched, frighteningly speculative and dead in the face.

Naomi tried to start her car, but it only wheezed helplessly and gave out. B exited and strode to the back. "It's the gas tank! There's gas all over the ground!"

"Mine too!" Lawrence yelled. "It's been punctured! The gas is everywhere!"

The entrances were attacked. The door was locked and barricaded almost immediately. The windows were closed. The rule had been established: no one goes out until they find out what the hell is going on. Left only in the hands of confusion and fear, some paced back and forth, others shouted wild accusations, and everything became the Lion's den.

Nate tranquilly twirled his malleable curl as he eyed the incongruity in the cupboard. "Ten little wolves went out to dine; one choked on a bone and then there were nine.." he murmured.


	2. Hickory, Dickory, Dock!

Author's Note: Thank you very much for your feedback, to those who reviewed. This chapter is significantly shorter than the first because now the exposition is over and done with, thus leaving fewer things to cover. I'll try not to compile a chapter as long as the previous again to refrain from straining the reader's eyes and patience. I'd also like to bring up the fact that all the characters are either terribly OOC or somewhat IC, and I molded this story in complete disrespect of canon.

* * *

**Chapter Two: Hickory, Dickory, Dock!**

* * *

It clock struck quarter to 9. It'd been ten minutes or so since Tierry's death.

Lawrence advised, "It goes without saying that it would be prudent to lock your doors and windows tonight, but just as a cautionary measure, I'm reminding you.."

"Miss Kenwood, why did you address your accomplice as 'Aiber' when his name is Tierry?" Nate tilted his head suspiciously in her direction.

Merrie ignored him and instead put Roger on the spot when she fished in her pocket for something interesting. "What is this?" she said and held it up to Roger's view. His skin at once became bloodless with trepidation and incriminating fear.

"That's impossible!" he stepped back in helpless awe. "That.."

It was the little wolf.

"Wait.." Light absently lifted an accusatory finger that traced from Merrie's position to Roger's. "That was yours, wasn't it? That was in the cupboard..."

Roger refuted any involvement before Light could add anything. "You know I've never met either of you before today! Why would I _ever_—?"

Miss Kenwood wiped her eyes and squeezed the wolf with a clutched fist, "Tierry was murdered. The kid says it was potassium cyanide. I don't care if you people believe me or not, but I know _I_ didn't murder him. I hadn't the slightest reason to."

Halle screamed, "He would _know_ that it was potassium cyanide, wouldn't he?"

The voices once again erupted into their now-commonplace shouting. Nate held up his hands for silence.

"Please. What chance or motive had I to administer him poison? I barely moved an inch since we assembled."

"Which brings us back to you," Merrie told Roger. "This...this is _your_ figurine. It was supposed to be in the cupboard, but I found it in his pocket!"

"Now everyone's just pointing fingers.." Matt scoffed.

Roger tried his hardest to compose himself. A cigarette was lit to compensate. "While I will admit that it _is_ mine, I didn't put it his pocket. And don't you think that if I killed him I would've been—I don't know—a little more _discreet_ about it? I might has well have said, 'Miss Kenwood, I am now going to slip a lethal toxin into Mr. Morello's scotch! Sorry for the inconvenience'!"

"There are people who kill without motive. They're called _serial killers_!" Halle stomped her foot. "And that's exactly what we've got on our hands."

"Anyone could get off with just saying that they don't know Tierry," Naomi offered quickly. "But I'm pretty sure it's a rule of thumb among murderers that they aren't personally acquainted with their victims. They can't be a suspect, right?"

Nate smiled coyly and tapped his fingers on the metal handles of his wheelchair.

"Exactly," Halle gestured toward Naomi as an indication of her intelligence.

"Then that settles it. We're all suspects," added Roger angrily.

"I'm pretty sure that's exactly what the killer wants us to think." said Nate. "As the late Mr. Morello said earlier, 'he wants us to kill each other'. In our current state of distrust, it's perfectly possible."

"I can hardly imagine we'd stoop so low," commented Naomi. "This is a very scary situation, but—" She threw up her hands and eyed everyone with an expression of disbelief, "I mean—_who_ here would kill anyone?"

"So you didn't believe a word on the intercom? Interesting," Lawrence repositioned his legs to cross themselves.

Light laughed. "Ah, man..."

Halle rolled her eyes. Naomi was long due for a reality check.

"Since there are no means of escape and there's the obvious threat of danger here, maybe it'd be wise to split ourselves into little groups, rather than going in our rooms alone.." began Nate. "Perhaps we should—"

"No!" Halle shouted, "I don't trust any one of you assholes. I'm done talking. I'm done discussing. To each his own. I'm out." And so Halle disappeared behind her room, leaving a loud slam of the door behind her.

"Me, too. It's getting late, and I'm not staying out here in the lobby like a sitting duck." Light followed.

As everyone ventured to their individual rooms, B looked around nervously and his fingers trembled at his lips. He'd be stuck _alone _in the lobby if someone didn't—

"B?"

He turned to Naomi. "Y-yes?"

"You're sleeping with me tonight. You too, Mister—Jeeves, was it? I'll just call you Matt, if that's alright."

Matt gasped with a start that made the bench shake. "W-what? No! I can't!"

Naomi sighed. "Look, you—"

He shook his head. "I...I killed 12 people. How can I possibly...?"

"You said it yourself: it was an accident. If you were in your right mind, you wouldn't have walked out there..."

Matt's eyes began to grow distant so Naomi stopped herself. "I'm sorry," he said, "I can't."

Then suddenly she glared at him coldly and snapped, "You're going in my room whether you like it or not. I'm not going to go to bed tonight knowing that you're alone in the lobby. And I _certainly_ don't want to wake up the next morning and see you dead on this bench. Understand?"

His mouth opened slightly and slid closed, for that was the only reply he could muster.

As Nate was just about to open the door to his room, Naomi asked, "You're the one who suggested groups so...would you like to come with me to my room, too? I wouldn't want to leave you alone either after your mother suddenly up and left."

He turned slowly, "So, someone who noticed."

"Where did she go?"

"To the police—at least, that's what I'd like to believe. But I think if she contacted anyone, they'd be here by now."

Naomi became gravely pensive.

"So..." Matt clicked his tongue. "There's still hope?"

The door opened with a disconcerting creak. "Right now, she's the only hope we have."

"Before you leave," Naomi approached him with her arms folded as if she were a police officer interrogating him. "I want to know—why did _her_ car work and not ours? Why was _her_ gas tank intact and everyone else's drained and shot to hell?"

He chuckled. "I wish I knew."

"We could discuss it in my room, if you'd prefer."

"No thank you. I cannot walk, so I need a room on the bottom floor to accommodate that—unless, of course, the idea of carrying me appeals to you. But maybe we can all assemble in my room instead."

Naomi tried to peer inside, but Nate held the door close to him.

"I don't want to," B almost whined like a spoiled child, and clung to Naomi, "Let's go in your room."

"Very well, then. Before you leave, here's a little tidbit of information for your little council of three: my mother wasn't mentioned on the intercom."

Naomi's eyes widened, "You're right.."

The lobby eventually became silent and vacant. Roger was the last to retreat. As if it would prevent another tragedy he took all of the wolves in the cupboard and dropped them into a small canopy he'd created in his shirt.

The last door closed behind him. He'd left the lamb in it's place.

***

Lawrence sat on his bed and sighed. He quickly retrieved a small bag of gummy worms and held one by the tip of his forefinger and thumb like he was about to slide the head of it through a hook and stop at the abdomen. He eyed it hungrily for a moment and popped it into his awaiting mouth. Then he peered up at the poem on the wall.

He thought: Every one here has committed at least one major crime, including himself. Mr. Morello is already dead and it hasn't been but 2 hours since everyone arrived. Everyone's panicking...

Miss Bullock is quite the insolent piece of work. She refuses to trust anyone and retired to her room alone. But maybe it's in her best interests. Light Yagami? I see he could truly care less about everyone else's welfare aside from his own. Miss Bullock and him would be a perfect couple. Oh, poor Roger, it must be so horrible to be under suspicion, especially when unjustifed. Miss Misora has taken the disturbed man and the drug addict into her room with her. One can only assume that her maternal instinct did not fail her after her baby died. And I worry for the boy in the wheelchair—too much intelligence and no physical strength to preserve it..

And whatever happened to Mrs. Takada, his supposed mother? Where did she run off to?

_

Roger stared nostalgically at the picture of his dear brother Quillish on the mantel. It was horrible to say, even to himself, but he _did_ purposely withhold his pills—he _was_ suffering...

The fortune was a delectable sum, and he would've gotten it anyway if he'd have exercised patience and let the disease eat him away on it's own—but he was doing dear Quillish a favor! He was suffering!

What a terrible turn of the wheel to have this come up again, after so many years had passed and the authorities had finally allowed the matter to be buried in the dusts of time and the archives of his old and sagely mind.

In the mindset of the dead, Tierry came to the forefront. Perhaps it was possible that someone could've slipped potassium cyanide into his bottle, but he knew that no one had entered into their room besides Miss Kenwood, the deceased, and himself. He'd been there this morning—_before_ they came—to clean it up a bit. And now they're thinking that _he_ did it..

Of course not! What hog-wash! Someone obviously took one of his wolves and stuffed it into Mr. Morello's pocket on purpose! If he were the culprit, why would he ever incriminate himself in such a stupid manner?

No one else seemed likely to have done it, except Miss Kenwood herself, and perhaps Mr. Yagami. He certainly had a motive, a good reason to want Mr. Morello dead. But if one were to suspect Mr. Yagami, they'd have to provide a believable explanation for a couple loopholes in their theory:

Light arrived after Mr. Morello and his so called 'wife', Miss Kenwood. (Or should he say Mrs. Kenwood?) The couple were in their room all the while Light was in the lobby. They only revealed themselves after the announcement. And just seconds before his death Mr. Morello went into his room to retrieve the tainted beverage. He drank from it in front of everyone...

And not a minute later, he was dead.

Merrie Kenwood was terribly aggrieved at his passing. She could barely tear herself from the bedside where his corpse lay to discuss the matter at hand. If she were responsible, then he'd have to give her kudos for her immensely realistic acting. That leaves no suspects..

But if no human were responsible, that only begot the supernatural.

Roger shook his head uncertainly at the thought of a ghost doing it all. But what if it was? In such a mad world, what really was impossible anymore?

"These people are out of their minds.." he reflected, ill at heart.

_

Light crossed his arms and paced back and forth in critical thought. Sayu and his mother must be going nuts right about now. Maybe they called the police and they're searching for him. If someone gets here in time, this whole nightmare will go away! If only...

But he's too far away from civilization. He can't even remember how long he was driving before he ran out of gas. Who would ever think to search for him here, in a hotel that even _he's_ never heard of before?

How in the world did this elusive murderer find out about his father? It hadn't been but three days since he died! And now—to be stranded here and cross paths with someone branded as the man who took his father away! What are the odds? There has to be some connection that logically links all the crazy things that have happened so far. This is so unreal.

But yet it isn't. That guy _really_ died in front of everyone. Choked to death... And the scary thing is, Tierry's death coincided with the way his father died—Soichiro was poisoned, and then Tierry was poisoned—does that mean he did it?

He re-winded the intercom in his head countless times, mostly back to what it said about him.

Misa Amane. The easy-going party girl with endless charm and allure.

...The violated, battered body in the dumpster. The woman whose death brought about so much misfortune.

He furrowed his brows together. "What a whore," he muttered.

_

Halle removed her towel and let her blond tresses fall onto her shoulders. Her hair was twisted into a wet bun and set in place with a black clip.

The opulent red of her manicured nails glimmered faintly in the moonlight as she brought them to her view. She took a lot of pride in her hands. Dexterous, lithe, and smooth to the skin. Perfect hands for a woman.

...Red nails. Red wine. Scotch. Tierry.

Tierry's misfortune had began to dig out a comfortable niche in her mind, to her chagrin. From there, she thought about his companion, his so-called 'wife', Merrie Kenwood.

Then, Taylor. The obsessive nut-case who murdered her husband.

She shouldn't have let that slip. If the Kenwood woman didn't forget it soon, she'd be in deep.

She walked to the bedside drawer with a supercilious air and slid out the first shelf. A revolver lay wrapped neatly in white dishcloth, waiting for usage.

_

Merrie scrutinized Tierry's corpse upon the bed, and the stain from the bottle of scotch on the floor. His brilliant blond hair lay tousled over his face, a reminder of the panic he'd been in, convulsing, trying so hard to breathe.. His eyes were closed and his mouth was set into a hard line. It looked a lot like he was sleeping.

She couldn't remember how long she'd been sitting at his bedside, running her fingers over his stubbled chin. The contact must've brought more blood to his face, because the faint blue complexion had abated somewhat.

It was bad karma, she thought, to have a failed heist and the death of a partner all in one week.

Merrie sifted through her black duffel bag and retrieved another bottle of scotch. He'd brought two for them both. He could be a heavy drinker when he was stressed, but you wouldn't know that from just a look. He was a master of deception.

Without a single thought she took a swig and immediately placed the bottle between her legs. She breathed in and out and prepared for the worst, half-expecting to die.

Nothing happened.

She licked her lips and whispered, "Aiber."

_'Ah, churl! Drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me after!'_ cried Juliet, echoing somberly in her viscous mind.

Sourly, she proclaimed, "I'll find him. I'll get who did this." Her eyes widened. The spiteful and uncaring demeanor of the widowed woman, Miss Bullock, came to her suddenly.

"Oh, _her_. Especially after she mentioned..."

–

Dice and card towers were abound in Nate's room. He'd made at least a dozen of both, in random spots in the room, just to help him think in different lights. Tarot cards helped with biased assumptions and the probable psychology of the various attendants. The dice had helped him with the chronology. A small building of matches assisted in weighing the danger of the overall situation.

Nate stood from his wheelchair and walked to the bathroom. He turned on the sink and washed his face.

Something happened to Takada. That much was true. Nate would like to entertain the possibility that she was alive and unharmed, but it was a little far fetched, considering the situation.

Mr. Morello had died because the killer ascertained his guilt in the matter of Mr. Yagami. Even if Takada wasn't mentioned on the announcement, how was that to save her from the perpetrator if she were going to relay his grisly plans to the police?

The announcement was a charade to get the people to incriminate themselves. It didn't matter if they denied; the way they reacted was proof enough. Tierry Morello's killer was a calculating creature.

But though he was a murderer, an embezzler, and over-all con-man, Mr. Morello appeared so cool and collected about it that the average person wouldn't suspect him. After all, if he really did it, why wouldn't he be nervous like the rest of them?

Nate glared into the broken mirror and recited the second line of the poem: "Nine little wolves went to bed late.."

–

"Did you really escape a mental institution?" Naomi asked as she sat on the bed.

B trembled and his hand flung to his mouth, as if he wanted to silence himself from confirming it. He squeezed his eyes shut and muttered, almost nonsensically, "I don't know, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it..."

"It's fine. We don't have to talk about it." Naomi saw that her unrestrained inquiries could rouse him to a fury or put him in even more emotional distress. He could hurt himself to compensate. The former course of action seemed silly to surmise because of his timid, reserved nature, but the later was viable. She'd seen those scars on his wrists. He was suicidal. She couldn't leave a person like that to himself.

_'You're mental, just like I thought you were...'_

"They were _so_ mean." B shook his head angrily. "They said horrible things and, and they were really hurtful! They pinched me when I walked down the hall and took my food away from me and called me crazy and smacked me on the head and—"

"Who? The patients?"

"The patients: sometimes. The wards: all the time," he responded, with immediate gusto. "The desk lady said that they would be nice, but they weren't. They were so mean. I had to go. I had to go." He began singing to himself, "_I ha' to go, I ha' to gooo...."_

B rocked back and forth and twiddled his thumbs again. It was a habit, Naomi realized.

"Is that why you don't want to be home?" he suddenly asked.

"What?"

"I mean, your baby.."

She looked down. "Yes. Home is a very painful place now. I just needed some time away..."

Matt was laying on the floor near the television, trembling violently. He clutched his stomach and groaned.

"I'll get some water for you, Matt," Naomi said softly, and jumped off the bed to retrieve a bottle of Aquafina from her bag. Before she could hand it to him she thought of something else, and ran into the bathroom. Not more than a second later she came out with a wet cloth in her hand. She pushed his bangs from his forehead and placed the cool cloth on it. "You're sweating. You look like you have a fever or a headache. Here's some water. Drink."

Matt obliged and muttered an breathless 'thank you'.

"Do you have a fever?" she asked worriedly.

"N-no.." he began to weep, "W-withdrawal.."

B thought it nice to sing a song to console him. His mother always sung to him when he was sad, so maybe it would work for him.

"_This old man, he played one; he played knick-knack on my thumb; with a knick-knack, paddy-wack, give a dog a bone; this old man came rolling home.."_

***

"I don't suspect the Yagami kid," murmured Merrie, biting her thumb. "He was too dumbfounded about the whole situation—he hadn't the slightest idea what was going on, and he was really angry when the announcement brought up his dad. He looked like he was gonna go a-wall on Tierry."

"'M. My first thought was the kid, but I don't think he has the brains for that. But I bet he's glad that—" Halle stopped herself. "Well anyway, I want to suspect Ruvie, if not the kid, but if he was the killer, why would he put one of his possessions in Tierry's pocket?"

"Because he didn't do it." Merrie shook her head decisively. "That's child's play. Only a really stupid person would believe that Roger was the killer."

"But think about it: he _owns_ this place. If he had a bee in his bonnet about justice, imagine how easy it'd be to set everything up. And he's rich. I'm sure, with the right kind of money, he could've looked all of us up, and arranged a way for us to..." Halle sighed. "What am I saying?"

"No, I understand. I think he would be perfectly capable of doing that. But he's too perfect a candidate, though. He just can't be." Merrie tapped her heels on the rug, lost in thought.

She narrowed her eyes at Halle and surveyed the dragon that seeped from her cigarette, held pensively to her cherry red lips and held in place by her long, pale fingers. Halle was in a world all her own, as if she were high, eyes closed, blond hair darkened by the dim lamplight, and throwing dancing women on the wall.

"I bet you know Taylor," she smiled, "I do."

Halle's eyes became dark slits and she appeared a white ghost shrouded in black. "Lind?"

"Yeah."

A poisonous silence ensued, but only for a few moments.

"I know his wife's name was something like Mary or Miriam..." she began, and tapped the ashes from her cigarette into the silver ashtray. Then she inclined her head toward Merrie Kenwood. "What a coincidence."

"I bet it is, sugar."

Halle glared. "So what are you implying? That I killed him? And as 'a prisoner at the bar', that's why I'll be judged?"

"No, I'm saying that you framed my husband and tricked him into killing yours."

***

Light glimpsed at the red digits of the clock. 11: 30. He had his hands folded behind his head to serve as a pillow.

He knew someone was else was going to die in a short amount of time.

Light thought that perhaps he could catch the killer by surprise. He was almost certain that the person in question was lurking in the lobby or somewhere else unoccupied. He sat up and screened his room for anything useful. Something blunt. Something strong and sturdy.

There was nothing he could use to protect himself in the main room. It was plain in the utmost respect. Just a bed with starchy covers over it, a bureau on either side, and a little chair by the window. Naomi said her room had a fireplace, but his room only had a plaque hanging on the wall with some sort of poem written on it. What was he to find?

The bathroom was his only hope.

He walked in and sourly expected to find nothing. For the most part, his search was fruitless. A shower curtain with tacky-looking fish hung over the tub, two little bottles of lavender shampoo and conditioner, a bar of soap... Wait. The rod. That would be a great weapon. It was heavy and thick like a metal pipe, but it was better than just his fists. Light propped himself up on the ledge of the tub and tore off the shower curtain. The rings all broke in two and flew off spinning in wild circles to the floor, making terribly loud clanging sounds. He tried to shake the desired object out of its confinement, but it wasn't budging. The metal rod was tightly lodged into the wall.

Light jumped off and growled. So much for that.

But hope was with him yet. He looked behind the toilet and saw that an old crowbar was leaning on the pipe. It must've been used to fix a leak and never put away. Light smiled to himself and made his way to the lobby with it firmly in his grip.

He slipped outside and inspected his surroundings. It was lifeless, but the lights were still on. The reception desk was left a mess and there were papers all over it. He could probably open the cash register and take all the money if he wanted to. No wait, even if he were that despicable as to want to take all the money, Roger probably had it locked, and the key was most definitely in his pocket.

Light noticed the wolves in the cupboard, still in position to chase the lamb, and thought about Roger further. He'd like to believe that most people wouldn't kill their own brother to inherit a fortune, but Roger had his brother's sickness to cover up the murder. All he really had to do was put on an innocent act and fervently claim that his brother was just too sick, and that his weak heart couldn't beat for another moment longer. He'd lived a long, long life, he'd probably told the police, and these things happen.

But to Light, Roger was a murderer.

His father told him once that there are different types of murderers. Some kill again and again for a thrill, and others are 'one-timers', meaning that they just want one person out the way, usually for financial gain, and they'll probably never resort to homicide again after they receive the money they coveted. Light, at first, concluded that Roger's case fit the 'one-timer' bill, but now he wasn't so sure. Tierry, the man who'd supposedly killed his father, wound up dead in the hotel of a man who'd also been convicted of murder.

Did Roger want to repeat what he did to his brother for thrills now? It seemed unlikely, given his fearful disposition when the intercom mentioned his brother. But the best of killers can put on an act that would fool everyone—perhaps having everyone suspect him was part of his plan. Then when everyone deemed that he was too cowardly to poison Tierry's drink, he'd strike again.

This stressed Light out considerably. This didn't apply to only Roger, but everyone in the hotel at the time. Who knows but _Naomi_ is the killer, and her kindness is just a facade to get the weaker ones to trust her! And the disabled smart ass in the wheelchair—oh, he's just too damn smart for his own good!—he's just waiting until everyone trusts that his intelligence can get them through this situation, and then he'll lead them all to their own deaths.

He had a lot of investigating to do.

But first things first: determining Roger's innocence (or guilt) once and for all.

The opportunity was staring him right in the face. Roger's door was slightly ajar and not completely closed as he would have expected it to be. He stealthily snuck up to the door with the crowbar poised in front of him, his heart pounding and sweat materializing on his forehead.

A quick shadow swept past the door in a wave and he heard a slight footstep. Roger was there, still awake (but of course, who wouldn't be awake after what happened to Tierry?). He approached and fiercely resolved to get this over and done with—if he scared Roger out of his wits and caught him in a compromising position then that'd be the end of that. Everyone would see what he was up to and there'd be nothing to fear any longer.

Light finally burst into Roger's room and gave a great shout. The shout then evolved into a scream and the crowbar slipped from his petrified hands.

***

Everyone crowded around solemnly.

Naomi offered to wheel Nate toward the body. He narrowed his eyes coldly. "I'm so shocked."

Roger Ruvie was laying face down on his bed with a large axe protruding from his battered skull, his arms sprawled about him and one of his legs dangling over the edge. His old gray hair and plain black shirt and trousers appeared mangled by a struggle and the covers, headstand and wall were spray-painted in his blood.

"I think the killer just took one swing at him. One swing of an axe of that size could do a lot of damage." Light shivered. "What do you guys think?"

"I believe the job was done with a single swing as well, Mr. Yagami," responded the ever-complacent Nate.

It wasn't that gory of a scene, Nate thought, and crossed his arms as if he were displeased at the sight of the body and not horrified, as he should've been. Naomi's shoulders trembled and she reclined into B's surprised embrace. He blushed and patted her back as consolingly as he could as he stared nervously at the body. Matt covered his mouth and brought his cloudy eyes sadly to the floor. He'd already wanted to throw up on account of the detoxing, but this was pushing him to the edge. Light squeezed the crowbar and murmured, "I guess that rules out Roger."

Merrie shook her head, "I didn't believe it was him, anyway."

"Why are we talking about him not being the killer rather than tending to the body? You guys aren't going to just leave him like this, are you?" Lawrence examined the axe and was tempted to remove it, but decided against it. "...I've found something you should probably take note of," he announced.

"It's the scene of a crime. We have no choice but to leave it intact until the police get here," Halle pointed out. "Hey, what's that? Sticking out of his head?" She pointed to it.

Placed in the bloody, gaping wound was another wolf figurine.

"How quaint," Nate smiled evilly, "I think you all should know that I saw, with my own two eyes, Roger taking the wolves into his shirt and retiring to his room with them. And now look—" He denoted the cupboard, "The wolves are set in their previous positions, chasing the lamb. And just like in Tierry's case, we find another wolf on the victim's person. It's the killer's calling card, I'm afraid."

All were in awe of the revelation.

"So you were the last person to see Roger alive, huh? Pretty shady," Matt grumbled. Nate ignored him.

"The poem," Naomi whispered into B's black shirt, too low for detection. "Tierry and Roger died according to..."

"Tierry and Roger must have died because they're guilty of their crimes!" Light cried. "If anyone else dies and they're found with a wolf, that must mean they did it!"

"Don't say such horrible things!" Naomi cried.

"No one else is going to die! Now will you all—" Lawrence tried to yell over the sea of voices, but unfortunately, no one took notice of him. They were too lost in their own panic.

"...There's no way to tell who's next!"

"What about the police? They have to get here...!"

"...That woman left to get the police, didn't she? Where the hell is she?"

"This is the end...we're all going to die here..."

"Stop it!"

The pandemonium ensued unmolested. Lawrence sighed in annoyance and shook his head at their detestable behavior. He was too tired of controlling the crowd and acting like their mother by telling them to quiet down. It's not like they'd listen anyway.

B frowned. "Everyone, please stop fighting..."

Nate wasn't paying attention to their senseless screaming, but studying the plaque on the wall. "The first victim was Tierry," he discreetly relayed to the distressed Naomi, "And he died pretty much how the wolf did in the first stanza—'Choked on a bone.' Except the bone is used here to mean the poisoned scotch."

"Why wolves?" Naomi whispered. "Why aren't people in the poem if it's _people_ who are dying, and not animals?"

"The wolves are symbolic. I'm sure you've heard the expression 'wolves in sheep's clothing.' We've all been denounced as murderers and are therefore awaiting 'judgment'. The ones found with a wolf have been determined to be guilty. The lamb is the only piece of the puzzle that won't fit anywhere. There's no lamb in the poem."

"The lamb? Oh, I remember now.."

"The perpetrator took the wolves and placed them back in the cupboard, but Roger, and the killer, I assume, did not touch the lamb. Lambs symbolize innocence, so I'm thinking that someone in here isn't actually guilty of the crime they were accused of."

"Does that mean that when that person dies, they'll have the lamb somewhere on their body?"

"I think that unlikely. He might not even kill that person at all if they're innocent. But what if the lamb doesn't symbolize an innocent person, but the killer himself?"

"What do you mean? The killer would be a wolf, just like the rest of them."

"This is only a thought...perhaps the killer is a wolf in 'sheep's clothing', so to speak. Did you notice there are ten wolves in the poem, but only nine originally in the cupboard? The last figurine is the lamb."

"There's no way of knowing who the lamb is..."

"There's only one way to find out."

"When will we find out who the lamb really is?"

Nate faced Naomi. "When the killer thins down the pack...to the very last person."


	3. Ring Around The Rosies

Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait! Long bout of writer's block. But hopefully I'll get back in the game enough to have the next chapter up sooner than this one took to compose. Enjoy. ^ ^

* * *

Chapter Three: Ring Around The Rosies

* * *

The chances of escape were at an all-time low. The storm, since its conception in the brewing clouds of the sky, raged with thunder and lightening and felt maddeningly perpetual. The tumultuous rainfall battered, clashed, and panned against the window panes and blew at the obstinate walls of the hotel like angry demons demanding entry. The sturdy door held fast with the help of a lounge chair pressed up against the knob, but a puddle of murky water gathered at the carpet. At some hellish instances it seemed the wrath of the bright, crackling lightning would bring the very roof down on their heads. The tempest shook everything from the foundation of the building, their bones and what little resolve they had to fight an even more wrathful entity inside.

"There's no form of civilization for miles." Light had been pacing back and forth for a while now, but no useful thoughts had come to mind yet. He'd always prided himself, as did others, of his intelligence in high school, but here, he was in an intuitive slump.

"Thanks for the news flash, pal," Halle crossed her arms, irate, on the bench of the lobby near the dead, potted plant.

Naomi announced: "I can't believe that there's no way out."

"Well, believe it," Halle returned, always a pessimist.

"No, I mean I _can't_ believe there's no way out. There has to be. This psychopath, whoever he is, can't have us by the balls just like that."

Light laughed, then reprimanded himself for his immaturity.

Halle chimed in again: "Yeah, that's okay—laugh while you can, Light. These are your last."

"Stop that. There's too much tension in here as it is." Lawrence snatched out a bag of jelly beans and began sorting them in order of the rainbow. "Now, Miss Misora, did you have something in mind that might help us accomplish this feat?"

"They couldn't have dissolved into thin air," she murmured and pressed her thumb to her mouth.

"What couldn't?"

Naomi tipped the trashcan over behind Roger's desk. "Our cell phones. They have to be somewhere."

"They're probably smashed," Matt groaned.

"I want to make sure."

Naomi's search only intensified. She thoroughly inspected the desk of the reception area, under the rug, in Roger's room, and even in the trashcan, where she found nothing of interest: just a few empty plastic bags of candy that had previously belonged to Lawrence, old newspapers, gum, cigarette butts and an apple core or two among various other articles of garbage.

In time, the other tenants began to take her example, their hope having been renewed. Before long a hotel-wide search was initiated in pursuit of the elusive cell phones, the only remaining objects of salvation now that Mrs. Takada had failed them for reasons too grisly to be pondered on.

"Someone has to check outside—I bet you that they're somewhere out there," Light said.

"Yeah, in a puddle of mud," Halle smiled meanly.

It became increasingly apparent that no one else was as keen on the idea of investigating outside as he was, so Light took the duty upon himself. He looked around for a rain coat or something to sheathe him from the storm, but there were no articles of clothing that anyone were willing to give up—not that he wanted to wear someone else's jacket or coat. Nate suggested either Tierry or Roger's clothing on the basis that they wouldn't have any use for them now.

Miss Kenwood was appropriately outraged at the comment and vociferated that he better keep his mouth shut if he knew what was good for him.

Light sighed and removed the chair from its position and opened the door. The wind blew so hard he was almost thrown to the ground. An onslaught of water, with the unpleasant force of a garden hose on full power, sprayed him utterly soaked. He glimpsed back at everyone else and aside from Naomi, who was too enthralled in her quest to find her phone, all bid him the farewell of a foolish soldier blinded by misplaced bravery with their equally expressive 'you're doomed' looks.

He would walk normally had the weather permitted, but the winds pushed him against the wall. He squinted his eyes and peered up at the dangling wires of the telephone poles. The wires appeared as if they'd been sliced by something really sharp. Perhaps a bolt of lightning had done it, but he remembered the phone lines being unresponsive way earlier, when Tierry was still alive and he'd just arrived. The storm wasn't roaring with all its fury then. In fact, it was just a little windy and the sky was gradually getting darker, with intervals of drizzling interrupted by a slightly stronger downpour.

"Did the killer actually climb the telephone poles and sever them himself?" Light chuckled bitterly.

Light went around to the back, where he found an array of barrels aligned against the wall, an old and rusty toolbox, wooden boards, the headlight of a car, and other junk that preferably belonged in a shed. He wiped away his bangs to see better and lifted the lid off the first barrel. A gasp escaped his throat.

He practically bashed through the hotel door like a madman and overthrew Lawrence, who'd been on guard and checking it every so often for Light's presence.

"Ow! What the hell?"

Halle rose up and beamed at Light, "Oh, don't tell me! You found a severed head!"

"Miss Bullock, act your age!" Lawrence cried as he dusted off his jeans.

"But what did you find?" Matt said with some effort. His face was pale and almost blue from vomiting into the potted plant just moments before.

Light shook his head.

"Nothing?" Naomi dejectedly asked.

"Our cell phones—in a barrel in the back."

Everyone gasped.

"—Completely submerged in water," he finished grimly, and ruffled his hair to alleviate it of excess moisture.

Halle sat back silently in her chair.

Merrie pinched the bridge of her nose, "Shit, shit.."

"Let's just go in your room, Naomi," said B. "It's better when we're in groups, remember?"

Naomi was too distressed by the news to acknowledge his request. She balanced her elbows on Roger's desk and rubbed her temples.

"That was to be expected, I guess," Lawrence's frown was deep. "Would the killer be that forgetful as to just throw them in an empty barrel and suppose that we'd never think to look there?"

Nate rolled his eyes. There was no point in looking in the first place, but of course these people wouldn't give up hope until they'd exhausted every single way to rekindle it and left themselves completely disillusioned. The whole search was a huge waste of time.

The tenants refastened the door as tightly as they could and put the chair up against the door knob again. Light secured the windows while Lawrence and Merrie went inside the rooms of the deceased to shroud them with blankets. They both came out together and locked both of the rooms.

"No one should go in Roger or Tierry's rooms from now on," Merrie said. "They're marked with death."

"There's no point in locking everything! The killer obviously isn't outside—he's among us!" Halle complained.

Light reasoned, "I know, but locking everything up would limit his movements and keep him from sneaking in through the windows to make his rounds about the hotel."

Said Halle, "I'm sure the killer is thankful for letting 'him' know. And don't assume the killer is a man, because you don't know that."

"You're not contributing to anyone's safety, much less your own, so shut your mouth! I've had it with your bitchy attitude. Go somewhere and die alone," Merrie spat.

Needless to say, Naomi was shocked that someone could say something so uncivilized. Lawrence only groaned.

"You must have forgotten the time when I helped you cart your husband's corpse to the bed so you could cry like a little girl in peace," Halle returned, "Why don't you take a glass of scotch for your nerves? Maybe _I_ should've put a cover over his face while you got your drink—that way he could rot out of your sight, and you could die in front of me!"

Merrie lunged for Halle but was intercepted by the quick insertion of Lawrence's body. He grasped her wrists and pushed her against the wall, keeping her kicking legs at bay by pressing his own against hers. "Stop this nonsense! This is despicable! You're all acting like children!"

Halle hastened to her room and pulled out drawer on her bedside bureau. She sifted through it, but her desired object was not there. A moment later she slammed the door behind her with a force that had the bolts clattering.

"Where is it?!"

Merrie was released by Lawrence, but only in the understanding that any advancing movements were to be guarded.

"What thin—" Naomi began to inquire, but Halle's scream tossed her voice to the wind.

"My revolver! My gun!"

Nate's eyes were piercing. "You have a gun...?"

"Are you deaf?"

Naomi stood up straight. "A gun? It's better that _no_ one has a gun."

Halle eyed her, incredulous. "It's better that _no one_ has the gun? Well where the hell do you think it went, then? You think it dissolved itself so no one can use it? If _I_ don't have it, then guess who took it!"

"How should we know?" Light asked.

"The _killer_, you retard! Unless it was one of _you_," Halle took a few steps forward and bared her gritted teeth. A few of them backed away.

"Let's go in your room, Naomi," B pleaded for the second time.

"Drop it," Nate pressed, aggravated with the insipid woman's behavior, "It's obvious that no one even knew you had one until now. Throwing these stupid temper tantrums over every inconvenience isn't going to help us get through this, nor is threatening Miss Kenwood into submission with a revolver. What we _really_ need is a plan."

"Threatening...?" Halle squeezed her eyes shut and palmed her temples in hopeless, angry despair, channeling her energy away from another outburst. Pitiful that they ever thought that simply _threatening_ Miss Kenwood was her intention.

"That Tierry guy seemed so calm and collected about things. He probably could've helped us out," Matt commented.

Light admitted, "Yeah, you're right. I bet if he was still alive, he could help us formulate a good plan."

"But I guess Tierry and Roger are in a better place now," Naomi said in an attempt to lessen the power of the stressful situation, but these thoughts were better left unexpressed.

"A _better_ place? Wouldn't they be in.." Matt glimpsed at Merrie and then whispered, _"Hell?"_

"I don't think so." Naomi said. This only worsened the overall mood, because the remaining tenants did not agree.

"Well, I mean, I don't think there's anything beyond the grave. The dead just have to wait."

For Halle, this was the cherry on top of a ridiculous conversation. They could care less that the killer had a gun now. Instead, their attention was being diverted by meaningless subjects. These people weren't getting with the program.

"Wait for what?" sneered Halle, "To wake up and realize that it was all just a bad dream?"

Naomi realized her views were unwelcome from the get go and decided to mend the damaged caused by her input. "Never mind. I don't want to impose my opinions on anyone."

"Good," said Halle before she closed her bedroom door in everyone's faces, "Because everything that comes out of your mouth is ridiculous."

The slam resounded throughout the lobby with echoing discontent.

Now that the ghastly affair with the disagreeable Miss Bullock was over, the remaining lodgers were in favor of disbanding for the night. Nate and Naomi fervently suggested groups, but Light and Merrie retired to their rooms individually, owing to the lack of confidence in their peers. Lawrence decided with Naomi's coterie, as he believed that groups would inhibit the killer's schedule, if not stop it completely. Matt and B were with Naomi, of course, for they had grown fond of her. It was decided (to Naomi's secret disagreement) that since Nate expressed no interest in companionship, he would be the loner, and Lawrence, Matt and B would take refuge in Naomi's room.

Lawrence was neutral in the matter, but Matt and B didn't trust Nate at all, and pressured Naomi to leave him. She felt a knot in her stomach that had occurred the last time she left him alone. A part of her was relieved that Roger had died in Nate's stead, because she'd begun to rely on him for guidance. If he were to be 'judged' this early on, she wouldn't know what to do.

When they were all situated in her living quarters, Lawrence asked, "Why couldn't we _all_ be a group?"

"Because Tweedledee and Tweedledum don't trust Nate," Naomi said.

"Who _does__?_ He's an annoying know-it-all," Matt scoffed and adjusted his goggles.

Naomi sighed. "Okay, here's the deal: I agreed to discuss the situation with him, and I'm going to continue checking up on him periodically until this clears up and someone comes to help us. We have to look out for each other, and this goes for the rest of you. Lawrence—you, B, and Matt stay here and wait for me while I have a little talk with Nate."

"But why?" B frowned.

"Because he's already proved himself a sound source of advice and I think he's more equipped to deal with this than most of us are."

Lawrence assented, but Matt and B were still against Naomi's socializing with Nate as they ever were.

"Why don't you get married while you're at it?" Matt growled, holding his stomach in as if it were about to fall out, intestines and all. Naomi ignored him and fetched him some more water and placed a bucket next to the bedside.

"Here's the dishcloth. Put it on your head—you'll feel a little cooler. Lawrence, he's not feeling so good, so if he looks really bad, come and get me."

"Anxiety?"

"He's detoxing," she replied.

"How long have you been in withdrawal?" Lawrence asked Matt.

Matt gulped and painfully squeezed his eyes shut. His breathing had become labored and he had, as of late, broken into a sweat. The migraine was chewing his brain to pieces. "I dunno—about like three days now.." he muttered. It might only have been one. Matt had not disclosed to anyone that he practically lived and breathed heroine, and because of this his sense of time was significantly warped. Up to 20 minutes without an injection felt like days.

"You don't have any with you, do you?" Naomi pressed, and searched in his backpack without permission.

"No.."

Matt proved to be telling the truth. There were only articles of clothing in his bag and a CD player. His wallet was completely empty ('Spent', he'd told them), and the pockets of his shirts and jeans were empty as well.

"That's just as well," Lawrence encouraged, "Endure, Mr. Jeeves. The catharsis will be over sooner than you think."

Matt rolled his eyes. "Whatever. If I get out of this alive, I'll be in jail for a long time—and sobriety isn't exactly a perk in that situation."

"Don't talk like that. You'll get out eventually, and then you can lead a new life." Naomi smiled as she dabbed his perspiring forehead with the dishcloth, but Matt frowned at her poorly placed optimism.

B sullenly averted his stare from her as she closed the door behind them.

***

Nate opened the door before Naomi could knock. "Wait," he said, peeking out from the crevice he'd created and sweeping the area for any possible intruders. Having been satisfied with her solitary presence, he allowed her inside.

She was astonished to see that not only was he walking as good any anybody else with full use of their legs would be, but he'd just came out of the shower and was half naked. A towel was wrapped around him from the hips downward. When he retrieved his shirt on the bed, she could see beads of water quivering and trying to hold their dewy shapes on the ghostly white skin of his neck, shoulders and back. His delicate white tresses curled at the ends in a v-shape around his nape and sent little streams of water racing down his back.

"N-Nate! What in the world—!" Her heart thumped. Had he no shame?

His room was another matter of wonder entirely: pyramids of dice, cards, matches, Legos and whatever else you could make a tower or miniature monument out of stood anywhere where there was space to be filled. Megatron and Bumblebee stood in triumph over a fallen Optimus Prime and another Transformer whom she could not identify—a pity that Bumblebee had betrayed the Autobots.

Here and there you'd even see sights so silly as a Power Ranger riding a rubber duck away from a bigger robot poised to attack them. If you looked at it from a distance, it would appear as a city, and the action figures were the citizens going about their daily, and sometimes epic, business.

"You're walking."

"You've a keen eye about you, Miss Misora."

She folded her arms.

"I imagine your little friend up there is quite upset at you being in my society," Nate said.

"Who? Oh, you mean B?"

"Yes, the neurotic Mr. Bridgewood. I saw him biting his knuckles as Miss Bullock was scolding everyone, especially you. And now, being apart from his lovely, melancholy lady, his knuckles are probably bleeding with regret as he broods in some lonely corner of your room."

"I guess he has a little crush on me," Naomi admitted. She stepped cautiously over a race car track currently in action and stood in the middle of the circle it made.

"That's good. You can keep him within surveillance, then."

Naomi arched a brow. "What happened to your wheelchair?"

"I'm not sure if it could be called a 'near-death experience', but while I was taking a shower, my wheelchair was confiscated by our elusive, murdering ghost. I suppose the revolver was, as well."

"What was the point of the wheelchair in the first place? Why didn't you just _walk_?"

"My dear, dear mother—the insufferable cheapskate that she is—believed that disabled persons are dealt with lenience in everything—and she perceived we'd get a discount on this room if I pretended to be lame."

Naomi stared. "In English."

"She thought the room would be less if I acted the part of a cripple."

"Then explain this to me: why did you lie to Matt and tell him that you were in a wheelchair for what happened with your brother? You made everyone believe that you were healing—"

"Because Roger was alive at the time. If I just went and told everyone 'I'm not a cripple', my mother would have to pay more for the room."

At the expense of shaking her head, Naomi blinked. Was he serious? "But that puts a gaping hole in your testimony. You said that you fell down the stairs and—"

Nate did not hesitate to interrupt her again: "And I did. I fell down the stairs with my brother. He broke his neck; I broke a hip bone and a leg. I never said that it happened _recently_."

"But you _lied _about it! You said 'yes' when Matt asked you if the fall was the reason you were in the wheelchair!"

"I lied, then. Indict me."

Her belief in his innocence began to wane. His fib increased the probability of the death of his brother being by his hand.

"So why didn't you participate in the search? Didn't you want to know where your cell phone went?"

"I didn't have one to begin with," he answered, "It was my mother's, and besides, I could hardly think that the perpetrator would go to such lengths to make sure we're trapped here, and then leave our cell phones unscathed in a barrel."

"So you expected them to be broken."

"I didn't expect it; I _knew_ they'd already been properly disposed of, so I didn't bother—in fact, it never even crossed my mind to look for them at all."

Naomi's demeanor darkened.

Just then, Light walked in and shut the door behind him. "Hey, Naomi, I thought about..."

His eyes fell on Nate.

"You can walk!"

"I congratulate your astute observation," Nate deadpanned.

"Naomi—you knew this? Why didn't you tell anyone he was lying?" Light glared at him.

"I just found out a few moments ago, and would it kill you to knock? You just don't waltz into someone's room like that. You could've walked in on something you didn't want to see."

Murmured Nate, "My sentiments exactly."

Light made a scoff that turned into laughter. "Oh, what? You mean I might've walked in on you two making out?"

Naomi's eyes slimmed. "You know what I mean. You stumbled in Roger's room unannounced, and look what you found."

"I wanted to see what you guys were doing in here. You seem to be getting along really well, so I wanted to see what was up."

"That's great." Nate replied, peeved. "Now—"

Light interrupted him: "Why are you walking now? Why did you fake it? And what the hell's with you in a shirt and towel? Trying to impress your new crush? I think you've got competition upstairs, and let me tell you, he don't look very friendly." This speech followed a bout of cruel laughter.

"If you'll allow me to _speak_, I just might tell you," Nate said, and his voice raised a little higher.

Light wiped a tear from his eye, but granted him his silence.

"There's a decree in this hotel that states that disabled persons get discounts on their rooms. Now—as pertains to Roger's demise, the second line of the poem says, 'Nine little wolves went to bed late; one overslept himself and then there were eight'."

This was addressed to Naomi, but Light butted in. "Wait—are you talking about that poem on the wall? Does everyone have one?" Naomi nodded for him. "So are they dying by the poem? I read some of it, and Tierry didn't choke on a bone—he didn't choke on anything. It looked like he suffocated from lack of air—not from something lodged in his throat."

"Notwithstanding, he _did_ choke. I'm sure future deaths will not correlate with the stanza in question exactly." Nate eyed the match tower, intending to rebuild it.

"_Future_ deaths?" Light cried. "You want more people to die?"

Nate derailed this comment before Naomi could indulge it and worsen the impact—"Mr. Yagami. I know you're thinking that we should inform the suspected condemned that any one of them could be next—and even take measures to protect them—but I implore you, do _not_. That is not a wise course of action."

"Why not?"

"If we just inform everyone right off the bat that Tierry Morello and Roger Ruvie died according to the poem's first two lines, then a panic will erupt: consequently, the hostility will rise to a level that those who want to impose order may not be handle. They have already proved themselves incapable of handling such information."

"But people are dying! What would you have us do?"

"Let it play out until all the pieces fall into place and we know exactly what we're dealing with."

"You just want to save _yourself_! You don't care about Naomi or me or anyone else! You're disgusting!"

"If you recall, all the actions you've taken so far were taken so as to benefit yourself."

"Hey, stop it!" Naomi intervened. "We should be discussing Roger."

"Thank you, Naomi. It's good to see that some of us are still in Logic's good graces." Nate began twirling his hair.

Light shook his head. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"The second line of the poem holds up for the most part," said Naomi, "We kinda 'stayed up late', didn't we? Roger was found around 11:30 and we were all wide awake. But about Roger 'oversleeping'.."

"The crime scene wants investigation before—"

"No, you can't! It's marked with death." Light interrupted nervously. "I can't stand being around a dead body, anyway. It's like you're being infected and cursed by their—_deadness_."

Nate narrowed his eyes. "Superstitious, much?"

Naomi tried to change his view on the matter by saying that investigating Roger's death could help prevent others, but Light obstinately proclaimed he wouldn't go.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure," he said.

"Alright, then. Miss Misora and I will go." In truth, Nate had no intention of getting Light involved in the investigation at all. Light was overbearing, whereas Naomi was a thoughtful, justice-oriented individual, even if she did question his integrity.

A slight wariness seemed to be staring back at him. He began to doubt his faith in Miss Misora. "—Unless, of course, you have a weak stomach like Mr. Yagami."

She looked down. "No...I'll go."

It was hard not to lose patience with his presumptuousness sometimes.

***

The darkness of Roger's room exacerbated the eerie gloom pervading over her mind. She could almost smell the blood on the wall, though the body was a considerable distance from her. She hadn't even stepped in before Nate reminded her that Roger was dead, and the dead needn't be feared.

He caressed the walls until he felt the switch. The light was dim, but sufficient. He walked to Roger's body and studied him until Naomi approached.

She pulled out the first bedside drawer. "Look: sleeping pills."

"For insomnia. Prescribed recently," Nate commented. "If he hasn't skipped a day since he received them, then it's possible that the pills lessened the labors of the murderer. If that _is_ the case, and he _did_ take them before his death, it's no wonder he was killed so soundlessly. The pills would make him sluggish and inhibit his speed."

"Insomnia? Then maybe he had something weighing heavily on his mind." Naomi frowned. "His brother?"

"What else are we to assume?" Nate ventured to the other side of the bed and lifted the only part of the blanket that was not drenched in blood.

"But he might not have taken them." She reached for the covers, but recoiled backward. "Oh, that's right. Merrie said it wasn't a good idea to touch him...but you remember that he looked like he was roughed up when we first found him? That's a sign of a struggle. He had to have been wide awake when the killer came in."

"Yes, I think that is correct. But as for him being 'wide' awake, that is where my thoughts differ. I still uphold the pills had a role in his death. Who knows but he might have overpowered the culprit and escaped had he not taken them? Roger may have been on the elderly side, but he certainly didn't strike me as some senile, soft-boned weakling."

"But how does his death apply to oversleeping?"

"As I've said before—the killer's deeds may require a little stretch of fancy in correlation with the poem. In the event of the next death, he probably won't follow it precisely. We've had two deaths so far, and for the most part, Tierry _did_ choke as the wolf did in the first stanza, and Roger died with the idea of going to bed, whereas everyone else was awake and sleep hardly on their minds."

Naomi closed the drawer and walked out with her contemplating companion. "I guess your assumption is more likely than mine in that respect. But our observations aren't exactly set in stone—it's dangerous to assume things in situations like these. Even if something looks blatantly obvious, the alternatives have to be considered. We should be more open-minded and employ our imaginations to recognize vital clues. The killer is childish, and he likes playing games.."

Nate smiled. "So do I."

***

Naomi formally ended their meeting and bid Nate farewell. Nate wished Naomi safety until morning and locked his door. After she entered her bedroom and disposed of her jacket on the coat hanger, she noticed that B didn't look very well.

"B? Are you alright? What's wrong?"

The man in question was greatly aggrieved. He crushed his fingertips into his forehead in anguish, as if he were trying to burrow into his skull and take out some insect that was wreaking mayhem in his mind. His eyes were closed, warring with a migraine. Naomi grew worried at B's inability to explain himself.

"Matt, what's wrong with him?"

His padded winter boots bobbed carelessly back and forth over the edge of the bed. "I dunno...I guess he's just scared 'cos everybody's dying and crap..."

"I feel like my stomach is twisting around...it hurts...it hurts so much...and I'm so scared..." B sobbed, "It's not fair... It's not fair..."

She kneeled next to him and felt his forehead. Though she'd only known B for a few hours, she couldn't help but indulge him with her sympathy. Trying to fill the void, she guessed. Ever since her son passed, she was caught up in a longing to nurture something else to compensate for her negligence. Who'd have known she'd lavish someone like him with motherly affection?

"Are you nauseated? Do you feel like throwing up?"

B could barely nod. He was caught up in a web of vertigo. Her words drawled out in slow motion; as such, he was slow to reply.

"_Dude! _Get off her shoulder! You're treating him like a baby! That guy looks like he's _at least_ in his early twenties!"

"Shh." Naomi silenced him as she patted B's back.

"Ugh...I feel nauseous...my throat is dry."

"Yeah? You want some water?"

"It's just after seeing Roger...I feel so sick now.."

"You can't throw up on the carpet," she said resolutely, and lifted him to his feet. His aches and pains continued, as did his infantile whining, uninhibited. She slung his long, bony arm over her shoulder and helped him to the bathroom door, and he lamented all the way.

After the door closed behind him, she added, "If you don't feel like throwing up anymore, just lay down and try to rest for a little bit, okay?"

He emitted an assenting groan in response.

"Why do you baby him like that?" Matt pouted. "He's a full grown man."

She whispered to him: "Matt, Mr. Bridgewood is ill."

That was news. "Shyeah, mentally."

"Lower your voice." Naomi approached the bedside. "I think when he was younger his parents didn't raise him right. One look at him and you know he's had a troubled life. He needs some kind words for a change, especially after what he said about the way people were treating him in the institution."

"People like him imagine things—crazy things—he could've distorted things in his head that made the people who tried to help him look like they wanted to hurt him. You ever see those movies where a person is looking down the hall and it grows longer and more endless? That's how B sees things. He needs _professional_ help," Matt dissented.

Naomi said nothing. She only gazed at the bed covers blankly. The mental imagery of the hall stringed others in a procession in her mind: two little girls riding their bicycles and meeting a little boy at the end of the hall; a lucid man breaking through the bathroom door and peeking his face through; a wife and son running through a desolate hotel; and a man frozen to death in a pile of snow, his murderous demeanor having died stagnant on his face...

Taking Naomi's silence as a disagreement, Matt muttered, "..But what do I know? I'm a stupid teenage junkie who killed 12 people.."

"No! No, I don't think that at all! My imagination was just running wild there for a moment.."

Matt dropped the subject and whispered to her: "I bet someone's out there, looking for him—his mom, a sister or brother, maybe. He probably got confused somehow and ran out here. And didn't he say he was looking for someone?"

Naomi sighed dejectedly. "Yeah, he said that more than once. But he also mentioned that person would find his way here. Does he mean someone from the hospital...?"

Just then, B exited the bathroom, his countenance as grim and solemn as ever. "Naomi," he walked warily up to her and averted his stare from her view, "Do you feel safe?"

"Of course not. That's a silly question."

"No, I mean, do you feel that the killer won't get you—at least not right now?"

"...Well, I think that we _are_ sort of safe for the time being—I mean, I don't think he'd attack three people in a room at once. It's not his style. He needs to get us alone."

Matt sighed and propped his head against the headboard for sweet, delicious relief. "Thanks.."

She turned around. "For what? What did I do?"

B mirrored Matt's thoughts before he had the chance to utter them: "I was thinking that if we don't separate, we can get out of this alive."

A ghostly and nostalgic 'perhaps' echoed in Naomi's mind.

"Do you remember any of the crimes the others were accused of?" she asked Matt.

"Some of them. I remember that Tierry Morello guy had stuff like robbery and embezzlement. I think he was a bank robber or something. But I think he was killed mostly for what he did to Light's dad."

She nodded. "So do I. Anything else you'd like to add?"

"Umm...before I do, why do you want to know?"

"I'm trying to figure out who's next. Maybe the crimes will give us some sort of clue. I need to do _something_ about it.."

"For all you know..." Matt trailed off.

"I know. I could be trying to figure out who's next and then find out, too late, that _I'm_ next. But still. Help me out."

"Okay," he put up his fingers to count his thoughts off, "There was the woman who lied and said she was married to Tierry but wasn't."

"That's Merrie Kenwood."

"Yeah. The intercom said she did everything Tierry did, so she might have helped him rob banks and stuff. Like Bonnie and Clyde, you know?"

"Good. You're starting to jog my memory," Naomi stood up and paced back and forth. She glimpsed at the poem every now and then.

"Does that have anything to do with it?" He pointed to the plaque, which by then had taken on a grisly, ominous meaning. She paused. She didn't want to _lie_, and yet... "No."

"Hey, you know who'd really help us out? That lawyer guy. He's smart. What's his name? Lenny?"

"Lawrence. And you're right. He could."

Matt was going to suggest that they invite Lawrence over here, but Naomi had plans of her own. B voiced his disagreement: "I don't like this, Naomi. We shouldn't separate. You can't just go out in the hallway like you've been doing and having these little secret meetings.."

"Isn't that a little suspicious?" Matt returned.

"Don't be silly. If you guys suspect me, I'm not going to go to the trouble of clearing my name. _I_ know I'm not the killer, so that's enough for me."

"That's not the point," Matt snapped, "You're not supposed to be going anywhere alone—don't you watch horror movies?"

"I think you've watched too many." Naomi snatched her jacket (it often acted as a placebo in stressful situations), told Matt to 'watch B' and left the room. She disregarded Matt's displeased frown and B's recitation of childish canticles to quell his anxiety. Her two associates were thus abandoned as she traveled rightward across the hall to where Lawrence's abode was situated.

Lawrence answered not a second after she knocked. He peeked through, afraid of what he might find.

"Well, can I come in?"

"Heh." He laughed. "Forgive my paranoia, Miss Misora. This situation has my nerves quite shot," and opened the door accordingly.

Merrie sat on the edge of the bed in total silence, meditating over a shortening cigarette. A small silver basin brimmed in ash inches before her feet. "I'm just keeping her company. She doesn't want to talk," Lawrence explained.

"We need to exchange ideas, pronto," proclaimed Naomi. She sat upon the bed and began, "What I really want to discuss is the accusations and what the others said to defend their innocence. But before we talk, you should know that Tierry and Roger died according to the first two lines in the poem."

Nate advised against revealing that, but Lawrence had her full confidence, and Merrie didn't seem to have much motive for the killings. This assured her that this information was still secure.

"You noticed that? Whatever gave you the idea that the poem is involved in their deaths?" he probed.

"The disappearing wolf figurines. And I read the poem almost as soon as I arrived. But listen: please keep this to yourselves. I don't want anyone else to know about this—they could go into a panic and start screaming that _this_ guy's gonna die or _that_ person's next and it's in everyone's best interests to avoid that."

"Sugar, everyone's in a panic, and there ain't nothin' to do about that." Merrie didn't face her as she said that.

"I know, but let's keep the panic at a level we can manage. If the police aren't coming, then we have no choice but to beat the killer at his own game."

"Miss Misora, I simply have to know: how did you come about your stunning deductive abilities? You're a true detective."

The memories were disturbing, even after three years of suppressing them. Voices, orders, instructions, agents, past cases, crime scenes. The gunshots.

"A few years ago—before I settled down and got married—I was in the F.B.I."

At this confession, Merrie's interest was piqued. "F.B.I? You serious?"

Lawrence did not share Merrie's uneasiness. In fact, the confession only strengthened his confidence in Naomi. In the beginning of this ordeal she came off as a woman of no distinction, but now she had revealed uncommon talent and skill. She knew it was better to work in a group rather than alone. And she took the weaker ones under her wing to avoid further casualties.

"The F.B.I. Interesting. It explains a few things. Very well then. What shall be the topic of discussion? I suggest Roger's death. Perhaps we may be able to find some clues that could point to the next crime."

"That's exactly what I want to find out before it's too late. But Nate and I already investigated Roger's room and found only extra details concerning his murder. It only proved that he died according to the poem's second stanza. It didn't point to a future victim."

"I see. What did you find out?"

"He suffered from insomnia, so there's a possibility he took sleeping pills prior to his death. And it probably helped the murderer to kill him quicker and more quietly. Other than that, there wasn't much else to deduce."

Merrie peered at the poem above the mantlepiece. "Now, who qualifies for the third stanza? It could be any one of us."

They conferred on the deaths so far and what courses of action to take. Though, the more absorbing and provocative subject was the matter of the accusations, the accounts of the accused and how much of these stories were based in fact.

"I don't believe that some of the accusations are true, especially my own," said Naomi. "Then again, I'm sure everyone else is feeling the same way."

"Excuse me for bringing this up, but your 'crime' was purposely drowning your child, am I correct?" Lawrence questioned.

Naomi hesitated. "Needless to say, I hope you don't believe that."

"And your defense?"

"I was suffering from depression. As of right now, I'm still taking medication. Whether or not it was post-natal depression or my marital disputes doesn't matter. People who are depressed have trouble concentrating—and I'm not saying I should avoid the blame entirely; if I'd been watching him, it wouldn't have happened—but it was hard at that time to think about anything else but my problems.." Then she added, "You don't believe I...I...killed my own child on _purpose_, do you..?"

"I'm in no position to declare your guilt or innocence at this point, Miss Misora, I'm sorry."

Naomi took the pang of pain quietly.

"Tierry Morello—obviously he's committed too many crimes worth mentioning, but the one that stands out is the homicide of Mr. Yagami's father. What did he say in his defense?"

Merrie spoke up almost instantly: "That he never knew him—and it was true. We neither of us ever heard a name like Yagami. We didn't have any Asian friends or acquaintances in London."

Lawrence inquired: "Did he die in London?"

"I don't know—I didn't know him, remember? _Tierry_ and I lived in London—this Yagami guy could've died in _Winchester_, for all we know."

Lawrence was refuted in his attempt to incriminate Miss Kenwood. He was thoroughly surprised it hadn't worked, since he inserted the question so smoothly and innocently. But if she was innocent, she wouldn't slip up her testimony, now would she?

"Light Yagami, then."

"He said that...well, let's see...what did he say?" Naomi returned.

Merrie inserted: "He was accused of killing his girlfriend, I think."

Lawrence corrected her. "No, I think he was penalized for not showing up in court. And then he got in trouble with the cops because they were convinced he was withholding information. I believe this was due to his ex-girlfriend's infidelity."

"Was that it?" Naomi pondered. "And in his defense, he said...well, he didn't really say he did or didn't do _anything_. He just explained that they believed he wasn't telling everything he knew. That account is flimsy. He really didn't go into further detail, so we have little to go on."

Lawrence felt his turn pending, so accepting the natural course of the conversation, he announced: "The serial rapist, Hirokazu Ukita—I didn't kill him. I kinda caused the uproar that ultimately led to his death, but I didn't murder anyone for money or anything like that. Even the announcement vouches for me in a way: 'your conduct (not my direct actions) caused the death of Hirokazu Ukita', I remember it saying."

The discussion had become a stand-still. The three persons involved in the conversation confided in their corresponding associate that they weren't guilty—when in reality, there was no way of knowing without the confirmation of solid evidence. Trusting their fellow neighbor was a matter of pure faith, as one would generally not like to believe that persons whom they trusted had less than holy intentions toward them.

The expense of turning everyone against each other was too great, so Naomi took her own advice and considered an alternative. "What if we're all telling the truth—and the _intercom_ is lying?"

"It was how the people reacted to these indictments that ultimately convinced me that something was up," Lawrence said. "I believe that some, if not all of these people, have some skeletons in their closets—some perhaps more serious, some more minor. Either way, it can be safely assumed that we all did not approach this hotel with clean slates to speak for our benefit."

"You're right," agreed Naomi. "Nate?"

"Something about his brother..." Lawrence rubbed his temples. "I can't remember. He got into a fight, I believe...and then..."

"His brother fell down the steps. He was accused of pushing him."

"And what did Nate say to the contrary?" Merrie returned.

"That they were fighting—and his brother tried to push him, so he grabbed him at the last minute and they tumbled down together. His brother broke his neck along the way," she said, "I just talked to him again not so long ago. He told me."

"Matt," began Lawrence, "Is guilty. We know that. He even admitted it himself. I don't think he would lie—scratch that—I don't think anyone would lie about being guilty unless it was to cover up for someone else, so...what about him?"

Naomi commented, "Any one of us is eligible for death, that much is true. These killings don't really seem to have much of a pattern in terms of severity—Roger's crime was less serious than Tierry's."

"Quite right."

"Then that only leaves that weird-ass Mr. Bridgewood." said Merrie. "I think he might be the next to go. He's kind of slow and messed up in the head. He acts like a little kid, and when we argue he gets scared. He's one of the weaker ones, so I wouldn't be surprised if he kicked the bucket tonight."

Naomi was distressed at the thought. "But—"

"No, wait. I know he's your baby, so pretend I didn't say that. I vouch for the cripple instead. That kid was showing gross disrespect for the dead. He obviously doesn't believe in heaven, because he can look on a dead body without so much as blinking an eye. He even suggested that Light wear Tierry's clothes because 'he didn't need them anymore'. But that makes him more likely to be the killer than a potential victim, I suppose."

"That doesn't prove that he's next. With everything the announcement said, it's painfully apparent that everyone here hasn't been a good Samaritan." Lawrence imposed.

Naomi, quite predictably, recommended Nate's input in the matter. Lawrence agreed; Merrie shrugged.

Since Light hadn't popped up to annoy anyone in a while, Lawrence and Naomi knocked on his door first. "We're aware that you don't trust us, but it's better to be in a group than..."

Naomi pressed her ear to the door. The ventilator caused most of the noise, but other than that, it was quiet. No footsteps. No creaking bed. No sign of life.

With her stomach turning to rot, Naomi turned the doorknob to find it wasn't locked. Lawrence's eyes were wide. "Just open it slowly...slowly now..."

Naomi released her grip on the door knob and the door slowly creaked open to reveal what they had been anticipating, or more accurately, dreading.

Light's limp body was sprawled on the floor.

"Oh!" Naomi collapsed.

"God," Lawrence trembled. Not a second later he sprinted into Halle's room and shrieked, "It's Light! Light's dead!"

Merrie didn't register the information at first; she turned slowly to face him as she placed her umpteenth cigarette between her beautiful lips. She tipped the cigarette, flicked her head toward the left, and said, "That's weird. 'Cuz uh...Halle isn't breathing, either."

The taciturn blond tipped off the accumulating ashes toward the rigid Halle, also sprawled on the floor, pale of pallor and articles of clothing and accessories strewn all about her. "There goes another 'prisoner at the bar'."

"But how can that be? That's not going by the poem!"

Rushed footsteps accompanied Matt and B down the stairs.

"What happened?" Matt cried out. "Who died?"

Nate made his appearance at the door and knocked twice. "Knock, knock. I see Halle is our lucky number three."

Naomi violently nudged Nate aside. "What the hell is wrong with you people? Two! _Two_! Light _and_ Halle! He's upping his game! This is nothing like what we could have possibly suspected!"

Merrie hardened herself to these comments. Halle had done her a very personal, severe injustice, and this was just equivalent exchange. She kneeled down beside the body and lifted the pearl necklace she was wearing and almost smiled to the red ring around her neck. "I like this."

"Have you truly lost your marbles, or have you always had this little respect for human life?" Lawrence admonished harshly.

"Not hers," she replied. "You should've came to this conclusion earlier. Halle was denouncing a higher power more than anyone here. She even said that Naomi's beliefs were ridiculous." She arched her brows as a finishing touch to her point, and left.

Lawrence and Naomi had no choice but to examine the scene and get what they could from it.

Naomi went up to him. "What do we do?"

Lawrence slumped onto the floor and his shoulders sagged. His eyes closed hopelessly. "I don't know..."

"Maybe we should do this individually—I'll take a look at Light and you take—"

"You're both here; two heads are better than one. Three, if you'll permit me." Nate crossed his arms.

"You're...walking." Lawrence said.

"She was accused of killing her husband, am I correct?" He walked around to the other side of the bed and lifted her covers.

"No, her lover was. But it said she 'staged evidence', so I'm thinking that she either told him to kill her husband or tricked him into doing it." replied Naomi.

"Hmm. Well, would you like to further your investigation?" He pointed to Halle's suitcases.

Naomi unzipped the first suitcase and gasped. Almost $9,000, in cash, was stashed in a corner. Her suitcase also included a tour-guide to Mexico, an atlas, several brochures, empty cartridges (thus confirming Halle's ownership of a gun), and a note from a woman named Deborah. One half was torn, but the remaining half read:

_After your hubby passed on this might be good for you. Come live with me and you'll be straightened out. England is a cool place, you'd like it. I heard you wanted to go to Mexico when you get the money._

"Didn't Halle's husband die in the United States?" Lawrence asked. "If her husband died there, she could go to Mexico and not be held accountable for her crime there. They wouldn't be able to arrest her."

"She never came out and said she lived in the U. S before she came here. I assumed she was American because of her accent," Naomi said, folding the letter and placing it back in the suitcase.

Nate added, "It was an insurance policy."

Lawrence and Naomi both turned their attention toward him.

"If, let's say, an astute detective such as Miss Misora or a competent lawyer such as Mr. Lawliet were to review her case and find the circumstances surrounding her husband's demise too fishy, she could flee to Mexico and escape responsibility forever. And as an added part on her 'innocence', she'd wait it out for a while and then—inconspicuously—disappear."

Everything appeared to add up. The evidence they had accumulated, from the brochures, the letter, the existence of the gun verified by the cartridges, and the sum of money she had stored away, it seemed that Miss Bullock had murdered her husband after all.

As Naomi and Nate had suspected, nothing but the next line of the poem pointed to a future victim, but it was rightly assumed that there would be another victim if they couldn't stop the perpetrator in time. The only thing that remained to be considered, after not one, but _two_ deaths, was who would be next.


End file.
